You have a beautiful smile underneath that mask - saposaki (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Goro Akechi was an enigma.

At least, that was Akira’s first impression of him when they met a mere week or so ago at the TV station. He spoke in questions and double entendres, constantly trying to poke at Akira’s fundamental philosophies and observe him under a microscope like he was dissecting every thought, every little movement he made. It didn’t help that he managed to weasel his way into Akira’s daily life, showing up to Leblanc nearly every night, second chair closest to the door as he sipped his same coffee in his same sweater vest while he looked at Akira with those same prying eyes that seemed to hide something deeper within them, with their bright shine that sparkled every time Akira indulged him in one of his strange conversations.

“Oh, looks like I’m on.”

In a swift motion, Akechi put down his cup of coffee and grabbed the remote off the counter, turning up the volume and shifting his attention from his laptop to Leblanc’s dingy little flat screen TV.

Akira took a glance at the TV, being greeted by the Detective Prince’s plastic smile. He looked almost like a doll— face powdered in makeup, freshly ironed uniform, hair brushed out of his eyes. Every word that came out of his mouth oozed with manufactured charisma, said with such ease as if he were taken straight from the womb with the sole purpose of people-pleasing.

Akira decided that scrubbing the dirty mug in his hand was far more interesting than whatever Akechi had to say on TV. It was probably some long winded moral assessment of the Phantom Thieves. The Thieves have gained a lot of notoriety following Madarame’s public confession, and every TV spot that Akechi appeared on within the past few weeks has been about the ethics of phantom thievery. It didn’t help that Akechi seemed hellbent on turning every conversation with Akira back to the topic of the Phantom Thieves, as if he were the living embodiment of a 24/7 news cycle.

Akira heard the familiar talk show jingle— a sign that Akechi’s segment had wrapped up— and glanced up from the mug in his hand. He was greeted eye-to-eye by the same plastic smile that Akechi had flashed on TV.

Akira raised an eyebrow. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, I was just wondering what you thought— about the interview, I mean.” Akechi took a small sip of his coffee.

“Do you take constructive criticism?”

Akechi’s smile faltered, only for a moment. “Well, I suppose so.”

“The jokes were horrible. Get better material.”

Akechi's brow twitched slightly, like his face was trying to rebel against his brain's command to stay courteous and polite at all times. It was the moments where Akira managed to poke a crack in Akechi's mask that he enjoyed the most. “Those jokes aren’t my own— they’re scripted, actually. I can’t say I’m a fan of them myself, but I was told that my own sense of humor isn’t suitable for TV.” Akechi took another sip from his mug.

“Given that your sense of humor consists of flinging personal insults at me, I’m not surprised— but seeing you insult a TV host for laughs might be enough to convince me to watch your interviews more often.” Akira didn't think it was possible for someone to make frivolous banter seem so professional until he met Goro Akechi.

“They’re not insults. I’m merely debating you. But I’ll consider it, if it’s enough to convince you to watch.” Something behind Akechi’s eyes sparkled, giving him an almost daring look. “Though I will say— if you’re looking for comedy, then maybe you should find a program more suitable for your tastes. Outside of the bad jokes, I believe that what I’m talking about is quite important— and I’m sure you agree with me, since you seem to be a big supporter of the Phantom Thieves.”

Akira brought his attention back to the mug in his hand, which he had cleaned around three times by now, choosing to clean it a fourth time over engaging in another debate about the Phantom Thieves with Akechi. He wondered how Akechi even managed to get a break from work if this was how he spent all his free time, debating his peers about the ethics of the cases he was put on.

Akechi, like always, chose to press further when he noticed that Akira wasn’t taking his bait. “The Phantom Thieves case has been quite the stressor for me. I believe I’m beginning to grasp their motives, but their method of action is still a complete mystery to me.”

“Uh huh,” Akira said, cleaning the mug with such vigor that he may as well hose it with a power washer.

Akechi quieted down, seemingly lost in thought for a moment. His brows did that thing they always did when he was deep in thought, knitted tightly together as his chin sat in his hand. After a few moments, he pulled himself out of the depths of his mind, letting out a small, breathy laugh. “Ah, this always seems to happen. This is the one part of my day that I have to myself, but work always manages to cloud my mind anyway.”

“Well, for one, maybe stop watching your own TV interviews— and shut your laptop. If you’re not on the clock, you shouldn’t be working.”

“There isn’t exactly an on-the-clock, off-the-clock situation when it comes to my job. I could be called into work at any moment, and I constantly find myself needing to do more research for cases while I’m at my apartment,” Akechi sighed. “The research I’m doing right now is quite interesting, at least.” He looked up at Akira expectantly, probably waiting for him to continue the conversation and say, What is it? Tell me about your research. You’re so smart. Would you like a free coffee for all the hard work?

Akira, given no better options, asked a simple, “What is it?”

“You seem to be interested,” Akechi smiled. Akira rolled his eyes. “I can’t disclose too much, but I’ve been looking at a website made by fans of the Phantom Thieves.”

“You mean the Phan-site?” Akira asked.

“Yes, that’s the one. Are you familiar with it, as a fan of the Phantom Thieves?”

“Not really,” Akira said, putting his abused mug down in favor of a cutting board and knife. He didn't know anything about the site, actually. He had no role in its creation, he had no intention of using it for Mementos missions, and he most definitely wasn't in the same class as its moderator.

“I just find it so interesting. I’m sure you know my stance on the Phantom Thieves by now,” Akechi started, causing Akira to roll his eyes even harder, “but the sheer amount of people who agree with them fascinates me. People are even asking them to fix their personal problems.”

Akira began peeling a clove of garlic. The pungent smell hit him instantly. “What kind of problems are they asking for help with?”

“It depends,” Akechi said, shifting his attention towards his laptop. “I was reading a post written by a high school boy who was recently broken up with, asking the Phantom Thieves to give his ex-girlfriend a change of heart in hopes that she would take him back.”

“C’mon, there’s gotta be something better than that.” Akira reached towards Akechi’s laptop, only to have it dragged away from his grasp.

“I have sensitive information on here! I don’t need your garlic fingers all over my keyboard,” Akechi scolded.

“That’s a funny way of saying you have p*rn on your laptop.”

Akechi’s face reddened, mouth forming a firm line. “I was referring to the confidential documents relating to my job.”

“If that’s what they’re calling it nowadays.” Akira went back to peeling and mincing his garlic cloves. “But really, you should give me better posts to work with. I can’t debate you if you’re picking the worst samples.”

The offer of debate seemed to trigger something in Akechi, because his focus immediately shifted from Akira to his laptop. “Fine. Let’s try the post underneath it.” He took a moment to read through it before reporting back, “This post seems to be from a child. They said that their mother has recently passed away, and their father has been calling them a burden and threatening to send them away because he has no interest in raising them anymore. They are asking for a change of heart in their father.”

“See, now that’s much more reasonable,” Akira said.

“Reasonable?” Akechi asked. “You think it’s reasonable to go online and ask for someone to be practically brainwashed?”

“This is a child. Think about it. They probably see the Phantom Thieves as, like, superheroes or something. When you were a kid, you never had a moment where you wished your favorite superhero would come and save you?”

Akechi got quiet for a moment. “No. I wished that I could become that hero. For myself, and for…”

Akira waited for him to finish his sentence, but he never did. Instead, he stared at his laptop screen, reading through the post again. Something in his expression had changed— the smugness, the shiny coat of paint and that smile were gone. A crack in his mask was exposed, chipping away at the Detective Prince image and instead exposing a deep vulnerability that Akira didn’t think Akechi had.

Akira reached out towards Akechi, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, are you okay?”

Akechi’s eyes darted towards Akira’s hand, a slight dusting of red covering his cheeks. The gears in his brain seemed to shift, and like a switch, Akechi’s plastic smile was plastered on his face again. “Yes, I’m okay. No need to worry.”

Akira pulled his hand away, grabbing an onion from the counter. “If you say so.”

Akechi gave a small, airy laugh. “My sweater smells like garlic now.” He leaned in a bit, seemingly intrigued with Akira’s growing pile of chopped vegetables. “What are you cooking?”

“My dinner. Vegetable curry.”

“I haven’t had curry in a long time,” Akechi said, drumming his fingers against the counter.

“I’ll let you try some if you want, but it’s not gonna be done for another half hour or so. I’m making it extra spicy.”

“Ah, no thank you. I’m not too fond of spicy foods. Plus, it’s getting late, so I should probably get going.” Akechi placed a few neatly folded bills on the counter. “Thank you for the coffee. I’ll take you up on the curry offer some other time, as long as it’s nothing spicy.” He gave Akira a small wave and left, his demeanor lacking its usual air of prestige.

Akira wondered if he’d ever get to know the real Goro Akechi.

Despite Akira's double life as a Phantom Thief, he still did put an effort into living an honest student life. He paid attention in class, or at the very least, was careful to make sure that the reflection of his glasses gave the illusion of focus. He made an attempt at answering his teachers' questions, even if wrong answers meant he'd have to endure the murmurs of rumors among his classmates, spreading stories of him vandalizing chalkboards and threatening students with pocket knives. He studied quite often, whether it was during duller nights at Leblanc or on his morning commute to school. The one thing he was insistent on not changing, even if it came at the expense of his reputation, was his friendship with Ryuji. He wouldn't trade it for the shiniest academic award in Tokyo, or even the respect of his teachers. Ryuji was the only person who saw Akira as more than a fabled delinquent when he first entered Shujin, and for that, he owed him the world. Or at the very least, a nice bowl of ramen.

“Hey, dude! Are you busy? Didja see what Mishima posted on the Phan-site?” Ryuji practically assaulted Akira with questions after school, as usual.

“I was just in class, so no,” Akira said. He wondered if Ryuji even bothered to pay attention in class today, or if he spent half his day with his phone hidden away in his desk, giving the teacher occasional glances to give the impression that he was totally paying attention. It wasn't like Akira was any less guilty of that. If anything, he was worse, because hiding a talking cat in your desk was far more offensive than a mere cellphone.

Ryuji pointed an accusatory finger at Akira’s face. “Don’t go actin’ like you don’t spend half your time in class on your phone. You were texting me ramen recommendations like, ten minutes ago.”

“Uh huh, but I wasn’t looking at the Phan-site.”

“Fair enough,” Ryuji sighed. “Mishima was postin’ stuff about some burglary ring. I was eavesdroppin’ around the school and I got a name: Kazuya Makigami. I dunno, I just thought the whole thing was sorta serious, so I was thinkin’ the Phantom Thieves could do something to help.” One of Ryuji's best qualities, and the reason why he even met Akira in the first place, was how devoted he was to helping others, even at his own expense. If Akira was the leader of the Phantom Thieves, then Ryuji was the heart, his loyalty being something that the other Thieves truly admired.

“Well, I’m free right now. Do you want me to call everyone over to the hideout?”

Ryuji gave the ground a light kick, leaning against the wall and letting out a long sigh. “Nah, I’m totally booked this week. Ya know, track team stuff. I know Ann’s got plans to visit Shiho this week, too." He paused for a second, furrowing his brow. "I dunno about Yusuke. He’s been sorta quiet this week. Maybe it’s ‘cause all the stuff with Madarame.”

“I guess it’s just me and Morgana, then.” Akira rolled his shoulder, lightly shaking his bag. Morgana’s head peered from the bag, squinting at the bright fluorescent lighting of the school.

“This better be important, because I was having the best dream about Lady Ann, and—” Ryuji cut Morgana off with a groan.

Akira, deciding it was best to interrupt them before they started bickering, asked, “You up for a trip to Mementos today?”

“Are we calling the rest of the group?”

“Everyone else is busy, so it would just be us.”

“Hmm…” Morgana’s tail whipped around curiously. “Do you feel up for it? We wouldn’t have any support, so it could be dangerous.”

Akira thought for a moment. Morgana was a good healer, and Akira had his own set of Personas that could target just about every weakness a shadow could have. “Well, we managed to survive part of Kamoshida’s palace with only the two of us having Personas. I’m sure we’ll be okay.”

Ryuji grinned, giving Akira a hard pat on the back. “Yeah! You’re more than capable! ‘Specially ‘cause you’ve got that weird power to summon a buncha different Personas. Usually I’d be dyin’ to go to the Metaverse, but I’ve got like, no free time this week, and someone needs to deal with the burglary cases ASAP.”

“It’s not like going without Skull would be a detriment to us,” Morgana offered. Akira wasn’t sure if this was meant to be a jab at Ryuji, or words of consolement for Akira.

Akira decided that it was best to wrap up the conversation before Morgana and Ryuji started brawling in the middle of the hallway. Morgana may be a cat, but his claws hurt. Akira would know— his arms were littered with cat scratches. “Well, me and Morgana should be heading to Mementos now. See ya.” He gave a small wave and zipped down the stairs, hearing the echo of Ryuji’s voice screaming, “Oi! What did that damn cat say about me?!”

The trip through Mementos was rather easy— easier than usual, actually, thanks to the pollen putting shadows to sleep. This new area of Mementos, which opened to them after Madarame’s palace, was veiled in a murky yellow light, the walls patterned with chipping subway tiles. It reminded Joker of a dingy bathroom— one that he would not be caught dead in, because he’d fear that touching anything would give him some kind of obscure incurable disease. The last thing he’d need to tell people was that he had three weeks left to live because he touched the most disgusting doorknob of his life.

Joker spun a worn, old key in his hand, a relic of the shadow he'd just fought with Morgana. The strange Mementos room that housed this shadow was so loud a mere moment ago, with the haunting sound of curse magic and the whipping of Morgana's wind filling his ears. Now all that was audible was his own pants as he caught his breath.

“Kazuya Makigami’s shadow was a lot easier to defeat than I thought it would be,” Mona mused. “Do you wanna go back to the entrance, or should we look around for some other shadows to fight?”

The battle was easy, sure, but that didn't make it any less tiring. “Let’s go back. I’ve got something to do by the entrance, and then I’m gonna help Yoshida out, so you can go back to Leblanc without me.”

“You really shouldn’t be going out after a Mementos infiltration, but I’m too tired to argue," Mona sighed. Joker was surprised to see him agree to let him go out tonight without a fight. Mona was usually pretty insistent on making sure that Joker actually took care of himself, which Joker was thankful for, but sometimes he really just wanted to spend his nights with his friends, even at the expense of proper rest. "What are you doing by the entrance, anyway? Please don't tell me you plan on doing that weird thing where you stare off into space for twenty minutes.”

“Yep.” Joker often forgot that other people couldn't see the Velvet Room.

After being escorted to the entrance of Mementos in Mona’s less-than-luxury cat-car, bidding him goodbye and going their separate ways, Joker made his trip to the Velvet Room. The twin wardens were no more pleased to see him than they were the last time, or the time before that, or the time before that— Joker was beginning to think they didn’t really like him. He could only take so many fierce cracks of Caroline’s baton on the bars of his cell before—

“Hello? Are you alive?”

Joker was pulled from what felt like the innermost depths of his consciousness, blinking a few times, only to realize that he was at the entrance of Mementos again. A figure stood before him, wearing princely garb and a red mask, waving their hands in front of his face as a means of getting his attention.

“Um, h-hello,” Joker barely spit out. He took a small step backwards, eyeballing the distance between the door of the Velvet Room and Mementos’ entrance. A good twenty or so feet— maybe if he channeled the energy from all the jogging that Ryuji’s been making him do, he could—

“Oh. You are alive! I don't have any healing spells, so I thought I was going to have to smack you back to consciousness,” the figure laughed.

“I-I…” Joker couldn’t really say that he was keen on avoiding danger— the fact that he frequently visited the Metaverse was a testament to that— but every alarm bell in his head was wildly going off at this person in front of him. The Phantom Thieves had recently learned of a figure donning a black mask— someone who was using the Metaverse for harm— and while Joker, the genius that he was, made the observation that this person’s mask was not, in fact, black, there was no knowing why this person was inside of the Metaverse.

“Did you get hit with a status ailment, or are you just stupid?” The figure was looking at him with those same eyes that Akechi always wore during debates.

Joker wished that he just told Mona to stay with him, even if it meant that Mona had to watch him stare off into space for twenty minutes like some kind of freak. He had to channel his best negotiation skills, put on the suave and heroic mask of the leader of the Phantom Thieves if he wanted to get out of this unscathed.

In an attempt to embody Yoshida’s teachings, he asked, “Uhm… W-Who are you?”

“I was hoping to ask the same. But I’d like you to answer me first, because if I’m being honest, you look far less trustworthy out of the two of us. Wearing all black with that creepy mask— you look like some kind of looter.”

“My mask is creepy? You’re the one with the knife strapped to his face.” Joker pointed to the figure’s mask, which was a deep red color, going down the length of his nose and ending in a point that almost resembled a sword.

“Answer my question.”

Joker thought for a moment. He had a code name for a reason; it's not like this person would be able to do anything with a pseudonym. “Call me Joker.”

“Ah, a codename! Do you have friends who came up with that, or did you name yourself? That’s so cute that it almost makes me want to puke.” If first impressions were a competition, whoever this was would most definitely be in last place. Or maybe second to last place, because no matter how many pejoratives were thrown at Joker right now, he didn't think that anyone could get worse than Kamoshida's creepy introduction of offering teenagers a ride to school. The bar was low.

“I’m not answering that,” Joker said, almost defensively. “Especially since you’ve done nothing but insult me before we’ve even managed to properly introduce ourselves.”

“Hm, you’re right— but the issue is that I don’t have a codename. I’ve never exactly needed one, since you’re the only person I’ve met in the Metaverse.” The figure narrowed his eyes at Joker, seemingly reading into something. “You’re free to help me come up with a codename if you’d like, though.”

Joker’s eyes scanned the figure’s outfit for a moment. White and gray attire, gold accents, a short red cape that draped down his back. He concluded, “Seagull.”

“What?”

“Well, for one,” Joker gestured towards his nose, “your mask looks like a beak. You’re wearing all white, and all you’ve been doing since we’ve met is yapping, so you’re basically a seagull.”

Seagull did nothing to hide the disgust on his face. “Well, if we’re going with a bird motif, I’d much rather go by Crow. They’re considered the smartest birds, after all.”

“Whatever makes you happy.” Joker pointed towards Mementos’ exit. “So, if you’re not gonna kill me, can I leave now?” As much as he wanted to investigate this person further, he wasn't sure if it was wise to do so alone, in somewhere as eerie and desolate as Mementos.

“I’m not exactly holding you hostage, but I was hoping you could help me with something, actually,” Crow said.

“First you barrage me with insults, and then you ask me for a favor. You're really not trying to get on my good side, huh?” Joker retorted. “You’re lucky you’re handsome.”

Crow chose to ignore Joker’s comment.

He took a step closer to the Phantom Thief. “Do you know anything about how to change hearts?”

Despite Morgana being a Metaverse encyclopedia, even he seemed surprised at the existence of Crow. Black Mask was enough of a shock for the Phantom Thieves, but a second mysterious masked figure was enough for Morgana to call for a full immediate investigation. Crow's mention of a change of heart was perhaps the biggest shock; not only did he have access to the Metaverse, but he was able to piece together the fact that the Phantom Thieves used it as their method of action.

“You what?” Morgana’s tail whipped around him restlessly, kneading his paws into the sheets of Akira’s bed.

“I agreed to meet up with him again,” Akira said. “If I didn’t, there would be a chance I would never see him again— the Metaverse is huge, so what would be the odds of running into the guy a second time?”

“Another person who has access to the Nav app is a pretty big deal…” Morgana mumbled, pressing his ears down at the thought.

“Exactly, which is why I couldn’t just let him go. We need to know what his deal is.”

“How can we be sure that he isn’t Black Mask?”

“Well,” Akira started, “his mask was red. I mean, it’s always possible that he just really sucks at naming himself, or Madarame’s shadow can’t tell red from black… or he has, like, a secret second mask.”

“He could be working for Black Mask.”

Akira scrunched his eyebrows, thinking for a moment. Crow had mentioned that Joker was the only other person he had met in the Metaverse, but Crow had done nothing to gain Joker's trust yet. His word wasn’t gospel. “Hmm… You’re right. Who’s to say that there isn’t another group of Persona users like the Phantom Thieves, who use the Metaverse for corruption?”

“Precisely,” Morgana interjected, his face as stern as a cat could possibly look, “which is why I’m not letting you meet Crow alone. He could be dangerous.”

Akira imagined himself arriving to Mementos again for his first formal meeting with Crow, this time bringing a strange looking cat that looked a little too much like a shadow. “I agree, but I don’t think having you openly following me around would be a good idea. He might view it as a sign of aggression. Maybe we should approach this how we approach palaces— you could follow us from behind. Just make sure Crow doesn’t see you.”

“Should we tell the others?” Morgana nudged his paw towards Akira’s phone.

“Yes, but I don’t think we should bring them to Mementos with us. At least, not yet. Having too many people following me and Crow around would sorta ruin the point of a stealth mission— plus, Ryuji is one of the loudest people I know.” Akira pictured a scene of Ryuji’s voice booming through Mementos with complaints of boredom, perfectly loud enough to be heard by Crow.

Morgana perked up, wagging his tail against Akira’s arm. “Alright, let Mission: Investigate Crow commence!”

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Goro Akechi was highly disappointed in himself.

So disappointed, in fact, that he decided that he would not text Akira tonight. He would not go to Leblanc, or wait outside of Penguin Sniper to see if Akira happened to be in the area, since he's been spending quite a few nights in Kichijoji.

He definitely was not going to Leblanc tonight. He had better ways to spend what little amount of free time he was offered as a public figure. Maybe he could watch Phoenix Ranger Featherman R, or go cycling, or head over to Jazz Jin. But he definitely was not going to Leblanc. He was definitely not walking to the subway to go to Leblanc, and he was most definitely not on the subway, headed towards Leblanc.

The familiar scent of coffee hit Goro as soon as he arrived at Leblanc. Akira was standing behind the counter, apron tied around his waist as he—

“Are you talking to your cat?” Goro skipped pleasantries and went straight for the question.

Akira’s face darkened. “Well, I was alone, and I felt weird talking to myself, and he is a pretty good listener.”

“You’re one of the strangest people I’ve ever met.”

Akira really was a curious figure. One the things that stuck out about him the most, other than his messy mop of hair, was his readiness to challenge Goro. Goro has never seen anything like it, really. He was so used to people simply agreeing with him, talk show hosts nodding along as he spoke about justice and righteousness, and his fans insisting that he was right all the time simply because they found him charming. He was more intrigued by people who had their own sense of justice— one that they were determined to defend, and one that informed their morals and decisions— over people who mindlessly agreed with him. He wanted to be around someone who tested him, was a force of opposition and made him truly think about his principles even if it meant that Goro vehemently disagreed with them.

Akira was scratching the back of his cat's head, his cat purring and curling his tail eagerly. “I take pride in my ability to befriend cats. You should try it some time. They make good company.”

Akira’s cat was, in fact, meowing in response to this. Huh.

Goro sat down in his usual seat while Akira started preparing the detective's coffee before he even managed to order it. Akira must have all of the regulars of Leblanc's orders memorized by now.

“How’s the investigation going, Detective Prince? You seem a bit stressed today.” Akira asked, grabbing the TV remote to lower the volume.

“You can tell?” Goro asked. His job was a particularly stressful one— both of them, if he counted the work that Shido put him up to— though Goro was usually fairly good at hiding his workplace stress from others. He remembered how observant Akira was back when he first invited him to Penguin Sniper, immediately noticing that Goro was playing billiards with his non-dominant hand. He made a note to himself to be more careful about his body language when he was around Akira.

Akira gestured towards his face, right above his cheek. “Either you’re not wearing makeup today, or you need better concealer, because you’ve got some pretty nasty dark circles under your eyes.”

Goro grabbed his phone, using his front camera to inspect his face. The skin underneath his eyes was tinted a slight purple. “I guess you can add the cosmetics store to the long list of errands I need to run,” Goro sighed. “If I’m being honest, I’ve been dreading leaving my apartment in the daytime, unless it’s for school or work.”

Akira raised an eyebrow. “How come? Are you some kind of vampire? You've never really come across as the disintegrating at the slightest ray of sunlight type to me.”

“Not exactly,” Goro replied, as if that was a rational suggestion. “It’s just that my, um, fangirls have been a bit difficult to deal with. I’m spotted in public more often than not.”

The last time that Goro ran a quick errand to the market to restock his pantry, he was stopped no less than three times by his fans. He was beginning to feel like one of those mascot costumes that were common to see around Tokyo with how often he was stopped for photos. It was a bit disorientating, growing up as someone disposable, only to suddenly be showered with attention by people who he'd never even met before.

Akira, in his usual theatrics, dramatically draped his hand over his forehead. “Oh, what a difficult life you live, being swarmed by cute girls all day! I truly wish I could take your position, just to take this terrible burden off your shoulders.” He chuckled to himself and slid a cup of coffee to Goro.

“Well, I can’t really say they’re my type. Plus, I’d rather not be approached while I’m trying to buy groceries.” Goro took a sip of his coffee.

“Cute girls aren’t your type?”

Goro shook his head.

Akira thought for a moment. “What about cute boys?”

“More to my liking, but I’d still rather not be swarmed by my fans while I'm out.”

Akira did not look surprised in the slightest. “I’ll be sure to avoid being seen with you in public from now on.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Goro retorted. “But I really don’t mind when you approach me at Kichijoji. I enjoy the company.”

“So you don’t think I’m cute?”

Goro decided not to answer that question.

In fact, he decided to take that one part of his consciousness, the part that looked at Akira with a blush dusting his cheeks and plagued his mind with thoughts of his messy hair, and his stupid glasses, and his annoyingly snarky comments, and suffocate it like it were a rogue shadow. Riddle it with bullets just to make sure it was dead.

Akira pursed his lips at Goro. “Why do you come here so often, anyway? Didn’t you say that you barely had any free time?”

'What an idiot,' Goro thought.

He instinctively flashed his Detective Prince smile. A layer of protection. “I like the calming atmosphere. There’s rarely any guests, and it’s a very quiet environment. The coffee is good, too.”

He had much more productive uses of his time. He could get drinks, he could play darts, hell, he could take a deeper look at the Phan-site for more intel. He’d been using the site to closely examine Mementos, taking note of especially worrying cases that were reported and investigating to see if the people involved had a change of heart. Long days staking out in Mementos, where he even managed to run into the leader of the Phantom Thieves.

Maybe he was the idiot.

No, it was definitely Akira.

Crow couldn’t say he was a fan of Mementos. He much preferred individual palaces for their more varied presentation and the personal aspect of them— the way they felt like taking a look at a person’s most twisted thoughts, the deepest and most concealed aspects of them.

The area of Mementos that Joker had brought him to, with the agreement that they would be training, was particularly unpleasant. The gloomy walls and dim lighting felt far more suited for a sewage system than a training ground, reminding Crow of a childhood sci-fi movie of his, where the main characters fell into a trash compactor.

“I think this is deep enough,” Joker said upon their arrival to the 12th floor. “We’re deep enough for a challenge, but not enough to get wiped out by stronger shadows.”

“The possibility of getting wiped out by shadows wasn’t even a concern of mine,” Crow replied, his voice laced with hubris. His eyes scanned the vast maze of subway tracks ahead of them until he fixed on a shadow no more than twenty feet ahead of them. Before he could even alert Joker, the Phantom Thief was already dashing towards the shadow, lunging towards its head and tearing its mask off in one clean motion. Black and red mass oozed from its face, and before Crow could even process it, a creature resembling a roasted chicken with the decaying head of a mummy stood before them.

Joker immediately called out “Arsène!” A towering force was summoned in front of him, cloaked in red with jet black wings that gouged from its back and framed its figure like they were a threat. Joker followed his command with “Eiga!” enveloping the shadow in a black and red energy that was immediately blocked.

Joker gave out an audible grunt, followed by a yell of “Jack Frost— Bufula!” Crystals of ice surrounded the shadow, piercing into its body as it gave a small cry.

“Do you not know how to analyze shadows?” Crow asked.

Joker dodged an attack. “Someone else usually does it for me.”

Crow rolled his eyes before stating, “Corpse Bird. It’s weak to light magic.”

Joker had the benefit of teammates at the expense of skill. While Crow had to work on his own, he felt it made him stronger. He was forced to learn every skill— navigation, enemy analysis, wielding multiple Personas— rather than making himself weak by depending on the help of others.

When Crow had an opening to attack, he shouted, “Robin Hood! Kouga!” The shadow was swiftly veiled in a piercing white light, annihilating it instantly.

Joker mumbled something suspiciously close to 'show off,' but there was a small smirk playing at his lips.

Crow chose to ignore the insult, instead saying, “You have the power to summon multiple Personas.”

Joker was special, just like Crow. Whatever being had decided to grant Crow his special powers had granted something very similar to Joker. The being must have seen them as equals— both worthy of such a formidable ability.

“You jealous?” Joker’s smirk grew bigger.

“As if.”

As much as Crow wished he could simply summon Loki, demolishing every shadow in his path with a simple Laevatein and a laugh, he was approaching this agreement to train with Joker in the same way that he approached billiards with Akira: with an intentional handicap put in place. Only this time, it was done to lessen any potential suspicions aimed his way— suspicions that Joker clearly had no issues of being imposed on himself, with his readiness to use multiple Personas in front of Crow.

Crow and Joker spent the evening engaging in battles until Crow was out of breath and Joker struggled to hide his slight limp, eventually finding themselves sitting in a row of seats— a rest area, as Joker had called it— as Joker emptied a series of snacks and drinks from his pockets.

Crow’s eyes scanned the rapidly growing pile of food. “How do you possibly fit all of that in your pockets?”

“Uhh,” Joker fished a small candy bar from the never-ending void stitched in his cloak, topping his pyramid of snacks, “something something Metaverse something something cognition.”

“Fair enough,” Crow said, “but I expect you to pull a car from there next. The thought of walking up a dozen flights of stairs to get back to the entrance is maddening.”

Joker replied by thrusting a travel cup of coffee towards Crow. “It’s a little cold. I hope you don’t mind.”

Crow gave a small wave. “No thank you. I’m picky about my coffee.”

Joker twisted the cap off the cup and took a sip. “I know someone who also says they’re picky about their coffee. They say they don’t like sweets either, but I’ve been sneaking sugar in their coffee for the past week, and they told me that I’ve been making their coffee better than usual lately.”

“Glad to know that you openly admit to poisoning people.”

Joker let out a laugh. “Yeah, and what are you gonna do about it? Arrest me?”

“I’ve been recording this entire conversation. I will be sending it to the police shortly.”

Joker had a bold, devilish look on his face, but before he could open his mouth to speak, Crow interjected, “I can tell by that expression that you’re about to say some innuendo, and I’d like to calmly remind you that you are currently equipped with a Persona that’s weak to light magic.”

“And I’d like to remind you that you’re completely out of energy.” Joker threw a piece of melon pan at Crow. “Eat up.”

Crow inspected the bread for a moment as if it were some kind of bomb laced with razor blades and poison before taking a small, tentative bite.

“By the way,” Joker asked, struggling to open a bag of chips, “what’s with your weapons?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I have a pretty realistic model gun, but yours is a toy.”

Crow’s ray gun is something he would’ve wanted as a child. Something he would’ve tugged on his mom’s sleeve and begged her to buy, only for her to tell him that they can’t afford it, and she’s trying her best to support them, and she needs to work tonight so Goro will have to spend another night in the bathhouse. Goro is just another mouth to feed, a burden left behind by his degenerate father with the sole purpose of ruining his mother’s life.

Crow felt himself slowly slipping back into his mask, collecting the broken pieces of his psyche and piecing them together to form his usual flashy smile. “Well, I’d say it’s considerably cheaper than a model gun, and it works all the same.”

While Joker’s mask covered most of his face, the look in his eyes reflected some sort of revulsion. “Cool it with the smile. You look like a serial killer.” He popped a chip into his mouth. “And you don’t need to be embarrassed if you’re into, like, sci-fi stuff or superheroes. I’ve been watching reruns of Featherman R lately, and—”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full, you cretin.”

“Sorry.” Joker swallowed. “You wanna head back now?”

Crow made a quick exit, ignoring the pain running up his legs as Joker wordlessly followed behind him. They said their brief goodbyes, making plans to meet up again and departing.

Crow clawed at his pockets, hastily grabbing his phone and opening the Nav app, leaving behind any thoughts of his mother or his childhood or that damn ray gun or his bastard of a father that plagued his life like a disgusting black stain and took any semblance of happiness in Goro’s life and forced him to strangle it to death with his own two hands. He ignored the voice in his head that wanted to drive a bullet in his father’s head and then turn the gun around and use it on himself. He couldn't do that; he had a goal that he'd dedicated his life to, and Shido's death would only serve as an act of mercy, not retribution. Shido needed to be punished. His life had to be ruined and Goro had to be the one to ruin it, just as his father had done to him. Death would be an easy out. Whatever Shido's life would become in a few months would be worse than any fires that hell would cook him in.

The ray gun sat in his pocket like a brick during the entire subway ride home, dragging him down on his walk back to his apartment like a ball and chain strapped to his leg. Upon entering his apartment, he immediately disposed of it on the island of his small kitchen area as if it were a real weapon seized by a criminal.

Goro had better ways to spend what little amount of free time he was offered as a public figure. Maybe he could watch Phoenix Ranger Featherman R, or go cycling, or head over to Jazz Jin. He could go to Leblanc.

But tonight, he would be spending his time alone.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

“God, can't that damn student council president leave us alone? I feel like I’m on probation or somethin’,” Ryuji said, before looking at Akira with wide eyes. “Wait, I’m sorry—“

“Ugh, Ryuji,” Ann groaned. “You’re so stupid.”

“Look, I didn’t mean it!”

“I harbor a sudden craving for ramen,” Yusuke announced, looking at Akira like he was a wallet with legs.

“Man, I never have any idea what’s goin’ on inside that guy’s head,” Ryuji sighed. “Anyway, why’d you call us to the hideout, Akira?”

Akira leaned against the Shibuya walkway railing. “I was hoping we could discuss the Crow situation again.”

The very concept of Crow had been an enigma to Akira. The Metaverse was filled with cognitive beings, entities with no real subsistence outside of a palace ruler’s distorted desires. This was made very clear to him in Kamoshida’s palace, where Akira remembered the look of horror on Ann’s face when they were forced to fight a cognitive Shiho, and the way Ryuji’s jaw dropped when he saw the volleyball team locked away, deep in the palace dungeons, enduring some of the most vicious torture that Akira had ever seen. Yusuke didn’t even have the benefit of having an animate cognitive self in Madarame’s palace, manifesting as a painting, a mere object for Madarame’s abuse.

Crow, on the other hand, was very much alive. Akira saw the way his chest rose and fell with each breath, the way he took small nibbles from the melon pan that he gave him, and the way his eyes had a flame in them that was so animated, so alive, and had this spark hidden behind them that looked like they could ignite into an all-engrossing hellfire at any moment. Crow didn’t speak like any of the cognitive beings that the Thieves encountered in palaces, who had dialogue that sounded so manufactured and tailored to a palace ruler’s twisted fantasies that they sounded almost scripted. He instead spoke almost antagonistically, and looked at Joker like he was analyzing the suspect of a crime, every movement holding a kind of greater meaning towards the answer of some big question. It was a strange contrast from the relationships of his everyday life. The people at his school stared at him with wide eyes, like Akira was one funny snide away from lashing out at the next person he locked eyes with in the hallway. His friends treated him with a kind of warmth that he wasn’t used to, and he really didn’t see himself getting used to any time soon, but he wouldn’t trade it for even a lifetime supply of the most expensive buffet meats. Not even the dessert would be enough to sway him.

But the way that Crow watched Joker was like he was a living mystery, and Crow wanted nothing more than to uncover every little thing about him.

Ann hummed. “I know we were just texting about Crow last night, but I had a feeling that you’d wanna talk about him more in person.”

“Yeah, I noticed something a bit interesting.” Akira fidgeted with the sleeve of his uniform. “Crow and I managed to get down to the third area of Mementos.”

Ann and Ryuji stared at Joker like he just started giving them a crash course on the theory of relativity, brows knitted tightly together and lips pursed. Yusuke, from his spot beside Akira, said, “I believe Morgana previously explained that the barriers for each segment of Mementos were accessible through popularity.”

Morgana popped from Akira’s bag, resting his paws on Akira’s shoulder. “Yep! This will be the key to finding out Crow’s identity. We can confidently say that he is at least as notorious as the Phantom Thieves.”

“Ohhh,” Ann perked up, “so the first Mementos barrier was broken after Kamoshida’s palace, where we became sort of like local legends, and we managed to break the second barrier when Madarame’s palace made us more than just school gossip.”

“So what you’re sayin’ is that we need to start goin’ after bigger targets if we wanna see how far down Mementos Crow can go?” Ryuji asked.

“Precisely,” Morgana said.

“I think the next step for the Phantom Thieves should be to start looking into new targets. Morgana and I will continue our investigation on Crow,” Akira took a glance at his watch, “tomorrow. I promised Mishima I’d meet him in Akihabara today.”

“Man, no way you’re ditchin’ us for Mishima!” Ryuji made a face like Akira just announced he was filing for a divorce with him.

“Do you want a working Phan-site or not?”

“Mishima really wasted away our entire evening, huh?” Morgana looked like he just saw the horrors of war.

“What’s the issue? You scared of a bunch of cute maids at a cafe?” Akira asked.

“No. I’m scared of how Mishima was acting at the cafe.” Morgana stretched his body, curling his tail above his head before burrowing into Akira’s bag. “I’m taking a nap. Wake me up when we’re back at Leblanc.”

Akira gave a small hum of acknowledgement as he made his way back to the subway station, passing stores filled with walls of neatly wrapped cords, TV’s playing highlights of old baseball games while customers combed through rows of DVDs and video games. The row of gashapon machines by the station was unusually empty, groups of people passing by it without second glance as they funneled into the subway, save for one person.

Akira decided to test his admittedly horrible luck on a capsule toy. Anything besides another Die-soujou was a victory in his books— he’s gotten at least five of them, and he was running out of people to give them to. He thought back to the look of complete indifference on Sojiro’s face when he handed him the extremely thought out and meaningful gift of Die-soujou.

The person at the machine next to him hissed a sharp “damn” after popping open their capsule toy. Akira peered over, watching as the person’s gloved hand inspected the tiny figurine with the delicacy of a seasoned collector.

“Akechi?”

The person’s head shot up, eyes wide in shock before fixating on Akira. His face became a deep red as he subtly hid the figurine behind his hand, out of Akira’s view.

“Hello, Kurusu-kun. Funny seeing you here.”

“I could definitely say the same to you.” Akira raised an eyebrow, gesturing towards Akechi’s hand. “What’d you get?”

Akechi darted his eyes away, pausing for a moment before opening his hand. In his palm sat a chibi-sized figurine of a character wearing a red bodysuit, a bird-like mask covering its face.

“Red Hawk, huh?”

Akechi’s blush deepened. “I was hoping for Black Condor.”

“Did Featherman suddenly become uncool? You’re the second closeted Featherman fan I’ve met this week— and the first one wouldn’t even admit to me that he liked it!”

“Ah, I just like to keep my more childish interests to myself.” Akechi gave the fakest laugh Akira has ever heard in his life.

“So, what brings you to Akihabara? This is, like, the last place I’d expect to see you.” Akira’s mind projected the forbidden thought of Akechi in a maid cafe, completely uninterested in any of the girls around him as he tapped away at his laptop.

“I finished up my work early today, so I was stopping by to see if I could find some old Phoenix Ranger Featherman tapes.”

“The original show from the 90’s?”

“Mhmm.” Akechi turned towards the collectables store down the street. “The shops are about to close soon, so I should probably—“

“Can I come with?”

Akechi narrowed his eyes at Akira’s grin. “I’m sure you would follow me even if I declined.”

“Aww, you know me so well.”

Akira noticed just how soft Akechi’s features were under the colorful lights of Akihabara’s screens. His hair was tied in a messy ponytail, with his eyes reflecting the awe of a child who was just let loose in the middle of the world’s biggest toy store. His makeup was lighter than usual— Akira assumed he didn’t have any TV appearances today— and his usual guarded smile was nowhere to be seen.

When they arrived at the store, Akechi turned straight towards the used VHS tapes and started flipping through them with practiced precision. Akira lingered behind him, eyes scanning through the bulletin board on the wall that was littered with various fliers.

“Huh. The maid cafe across the street is hiring. You think I should apply?” Akira asked.

“You’re free to do as you please, and I’m free to judge you.” Akechi picked up a tape, inspecting it carefully.

“Y’know, a lot of people would kill to see me in a maid dress.”

“I can’t say I’m one of them.

Akira crossed his arms. His eyes darted to the next flier. “There’s a band called Gas Chamber performing in the area next week.”

“Sounds amateurish.”

“Not into visual kei, huh?”

“I prefer jazz music. There’s a jazz club not too far from here that I’m quite fond of. I should take you there some time.” Akechi collected his small pile of tapes and carried them to the register, Akira following behind. He handed a few bills to the cashier, and then turned to Akira. “Now I just need to hope I’m lucky next time I go to a used goods store.”

“You really think they’d have Featherman tapes?”

“Oh, I’m looking for a VHS player, actually.” Akechi gave a small wave to the cashier, walking out of the shop with Akira.

“Why’d you get a bunch of tapes if you don’t even have a VHS player?”

“Well, the used goods store near my apartment is closed at this time, so I decided to get the tapes first,” Akechi replied, his briefcase swinging at his side.

Akira gave a small hum. “I have a VHS player back at Leblanc if you wanna watch one of the tapes tonight.”

A brief spark of excitement flashed in Akechi’s eyes. “Ah, I mean, if you don’t mind—”

“You manage to show up at Leblanc constantly anyway, so it’s not like it would be any different if I invited you this time.” By this point, Akira was sure that setting up booby traps around Leblanc wouldn't be enough to keep Akechi away. In fact, Akechi seemed like the type who would enjoy narrowly avoiding getting his face blown off from a tripwire, and if anything, would probably ask Akira to make the traps harder.

A small smile played at Akechi’s lips.

Akira opened the door to Leblanc, the bell at the entrance greeting him with a small jingle.

As he and Akechi passed Sojiro, Akira gave him a wave. “I’m bringing a friend upstairs.”

“Just make sure you aren’t loud. I have customers,” Sojiro said from behind the counter.

Akira gave him a hum of acknowledgement and led Akechi up the stairs to the attic. Akechi’s eyes scanned every crevice of Akira’s room, from the pile of boxes in the corner to the particles of dust floating around them. His nose crinkled slightly in disgust, until his eyes met with Akira’s and he smoothed out his facial expression.

Akira pulled over a chair from his workbench, setting it up in front of his box TV. “Premium seating,” he grinned. He emptied his bag, placing a sleeping Morgana on the bed and laying the tapes out next to him. “Which one do you wanna watch first?”

Akechi scanned each option carefully, his hand rubbing his chin. “Let’s watch this one,” he said, grabbing the third tape and setting up Akira’s VHS player.

Akira had never seen Akechi with such child-like wonder before tonight. In fact, this was a side to Akechi that he would’ve never even suspected to exist— though, in hindsight, it did explain the hero of justice persona that Akechi liked to play. He wondered why Akechi was so insistent on hiding this side of himself, instead choosing to give off the image of a mature adult, wearing nothing but argyle sweater vests and button up dress shirts and speaking with such formality that it put dictionaries to shame.

“This episode was my favorite as a kid,” Akechi said as the second episode on the tape started. “One of the foster homes I stayed in had a few of these tapes, and I used to watch this episode all the time.”

“Foster home?” Akira asked, looking at Akechi.

“Ah, I should probably explain,” Akechi looked down at his lap, fidgeting with his gloves. “My mom died when I was a child. My father was never really in the picture, so I was sent from foster home to foster home until I eventually turned old enough to live on my own.”

“Oh, I’m s—”

Akechi’s plastic smile was back, sitting on his face as if he wasn’t telling the grim story of his own mother’s death. “Don’t apologize. It’s not like you were the one who killed her.”

They sat in silence for a bit, Akechi’s eyes on the TV with his Detective Prince smile plastered on. Akira stared at the floor.

“Akechi, you know you could always talk to me, right?”

Akechi did not respond.

“Akechi?”

“I’m okay, Kurusu-kun. It was a long time ago. I’m over it.”

Akechi’s voice sounded raw.

Akira decided to drop the subject.

Akechi started collecting his things when the episode ended. “If you don’t mind, I’ll leave the tapes with you since you’re the one with the VHS player.”

“Mhmm.” Akira didn’t have the energy to give a proper response. He glanced over at Morgana fast asleep on the bed with a pang of jealousy in his chest.

Akechi took a step towards Akira. Too close. His breath hitched for a moment. He grabbed Akira’s hand, placing a small object in his palm and closing his fingers around it. Akechi brushed his gloved thumb over Akira’s knuckles. He did not look him in the eyes.

“Thank you for tonight.”

Akira watched as Akechi grabbed his briefcase and turned towards the attic stairs. It wasn’t until he heard the bell at Leblanc’s door give its small jingle that he uncurled his fingers, exposing the small Red Hawk figure that Akechi placed in his hand.

Something was bothering Joker.

It sat on the tip of his tongue, so painfully obvious to him yet veiled in a thick layer of fog that made it impossible to discern, like spending an hour looking for a pair of glasses that were sitting on his head the entire time.

He watched as Crow ambushed the shadow in front of him, brows furrowed as he studied him carefully: the way he brushed his shaggy hair out of his eyes between attacks, the sense of authority and dominance he held with each step he took, the way his mouth curled into a smirk every time he downed a shadow. The thought scratched from the confines of Joker’s brain, desperately trying to break free, only to be smothered by the strange fog that seemed to cloud his mind.

“Are you going to just stand there like some kind of damsel, or are you going to step in and fight?” Crow pushed a strand of hair out of his face.

“A damsel?” Joker asked. “Are you saying that a handsome prince needs to come and save me?” He batted his eyelashes at Crow.

“Has anyone ever told you how obnoxious you are?” Crow snarled.

“You did, like, five minutes ago.”

“Glad to know your memory exceeds that of a goldfish. Let’s work towards getting you to the level of a dog next.” Crow noticed the grin on Joker’s face and immediately realized his mistake. “Make one suggestive comment and so help me—”

“I can think of at least five.”

“Keep it to yourself. I’m not hosting a show and tell.” Crow straightened his cape and adjusted his mask. “Now, are we going to be using this time productively, or should I start gathering my things and leave?” He somehow managed to have an ego worse than the likes of Akechi, but at least Crow was upfront about it.

The same grin from earlier sat on Joker’s lips. “You think you’re better than me or something?”

“I consider you an equal, which may be a bit embarrassing on my part if all you seem capable of doing is standing on the sidelines and making quips… unless you’d like to prove otherwise.”

Joker took that as a challenge.

He bolted to the nearest figure, tearing its mask off for an ambush. A horde of shadows appeared, resembling tiny old men that carried large, umbrella-like leaves and looked at Joker with beady black eyes. Joker thought back to Madarame’s palace, remembering how Ann always managed to easily take these shadows down before they could even get a single attack in.

“Inugami!” Joker summoned. “Maragion!”

The shadows were engulfed in a blazing heat, incinerating half of them and leaving the other half incapacitated on the ground, unable to move. Joker unsheathed his knife, swiftly slashing them and watching as their bodies evaporated into a puff of black dust. One shadow remained. He did a quick flip backwards, turning on his heel and dropping down onto one knee to deliver a final gunshot to its head.

“A definite improvement from last time, I must say,” Crow commented from behind. “At least you managed to target its weakness this time.”

“There’s just no impressing you, is there?” Joker crossed his arms.

“Do it again,” Crow teased. “Prove to me that you’re worth something.”

A fire blazed in Joker’s gut, a heat so deep and intense that nothing else mattered. He ambushed the next shadow in sight. He recognized it this time— Hua Po. Like an instinct, he immediately grabbed his gun from his jacket and showered the fairy in bullets, watching as it fell limply onto the ground.

“Wait!” The shadow’s voice trembled. “Please spare me. I have money— I have rare items.” It reached into its pockets, hands shaking as it tossed a pile of coins onto the ground.

Joker hesitated for a moment. A strange voice deep in his mind cooed, Shoot it. Show no mercy. The fire in his chest blazed deeper.

Joker did not lower his gun. “Join my cause.”

The shadow transformed into a mask, its very essence becoming one with Joker. He turned around to face Crow, who, for a split second, was wearing the same calculating expression that Akechi wore during heated debates. The expression immediately twisted into a wicked smile that danced on his lips like they were saying, ‘challenge accepted.’

“God, I love it when they beg for their lives.”

Crow lunged towards the nearest shadow, immediately pulling out his sword and slashing into the horde before they even had a chance to fully manifest. His eyes were wild as he howled with a noise that was so twisted, so nasty and vicious that Joker’s brain barely registered it as laughter. Crow was heaving in hysterics, trembling as he pulled out a gun— a real gun— emptying an entire magazine into a single shadow and driving his sword into it with such force that it skewered the shadow’s body before it ruptured into a shower of grime.

Crow turned around, practically convulsing as he looked Joker in the eye like he were another helpless shadow, prey ready to be slaughtered. He took a step closer to him, shoulders rising and falling with each breath, the same wicked smile etched on his face.

In an instant, Joker grabbed Crow, shoving him against the wall and pinning him by the shoulders. They were both panting, Crow’s untamed hair framing his face as his wild eyes bore into Joker’s.

“Do it. Whatever you’re thinking about right now, do it. You’re a coward,” Crow spat.

Joker watched the way Crow’s lips sneered around the word coward, the way they trembled with heavy breaths, the way they parted slightly and glistened with sweat and spit, their breaths tangling together.

Joker loosened his grip on Crow.

Maybe he was a coward.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

The chair that Goro sat in was very uncomfortable.

Perhaps the most expensive chair he’s ever seen in his entire life. A cushion made of a thick black leather, with silver beads that dotted the perimeter like an army of ants, cursed to march in a never ending spiral until they died of exhaustion. The polished wooden arms of the chair lodged into Goro’s sides like they were trying to restrain him, squeeze every last breath out of him until he was desperately clawing for air that his body couldn’t gasp.

This chair was not meant to be sat in.

No, it was just another prop in this dollhouse that Goro resided in. The large, darkwood desk in front of the window that overlooked the most priceless buildings of Tokyo, the rack of glasses and wines that were far older than him and imported from every corner of the globe, the grand bookshelf stacked with volumes worth of research on cognitive psience and shadows written by some of Japan’s most esteemed researchers, from Wakaba Isshiki to the Nanjo Group.

He gazed out the window, wondering how long it would take to reach the ground from a 25 story jump.

The door behind Goro opened with a groan, a heavy presence entering the room. Hard footsteps treaded from the entrance to the wine rack, grabbing a bottle and pouring the wine into a glass with practiced ease. Goro’s muscles tensed.

The figure walked over to the desk, taking a seat in the plump office chair and spinning around to face Goro.

“Hello, Goro.”

“Good evening, Shido-san.”

Shido looked at the glass in his hand, whirling the wine in small circles. “Tell me about the Phantom Thieves.”

Goro felt his puppet strings twisting, shifting his limbs to make him shrink, take up the least amount of space in Shido’s office as possible. “Their leader’s name is Joker. They use Mementos as a training ground of sorts, and a way to change the hearts of lesser-profile figures.”

Shido lifted his eyes from the glass, glaring at Goro. “And?”

Goro’s strings wrapped around his throat. “I haven’t been able to find a lead on his identity yet.”

“Why not?” Shido took a sip from the prop in his hand.

The strings dug deeper into Goro’s neck. His throat was constricting, his lungs refusing to take in anything besides shallow breaths. “I believe it’s the cognition.” He paused. Took a breath. “If I don’t know his real name, I don’t think my brain will allow me to connect Joker to his true identity.”

Shido glared at Goro like he was a slab of rotten meat at a butcher shop. “You are going to take care of these Phantom Thieves before they become a problem for me.”

“Yes, Shido-san,” Goro’s mouth puppeted.

“Don’t disappoint me this time.”

“Y’know, it’s nice being served for once instead of being stuck serving you all the time.” Akira popped a fry in his mouth.

“Well, my sincerest apologies for making you do your job. I’ll try to be more considerate next time,” Goro smiled.

While Goro spent quite a few nights at Penguin Sniper, it wasn’t often that he actually sat down to eat in the dining area. His usual routine was to spend an hour at the billiards tables, and then end his night with a few rounds of darts. Having someone to accompany him was even more foreign. He would occasionally get into polite conversation with the staff, with shallow talk about work and school, but those conversations lacked anything meaningful. They felt like an extension of his job; simple small talk to please those around him.

Akira grabbed another fry. “It’s not like I’m getting paid.”

“I was under the impression that you liked serving people. Wasn’t it only a few days ago that you mentioned wanting to apply to a— what was it— maid cafe?”

Akira pointed a fry at Goro. “I will not let you use my affinity for crossdressing against me.” He squinted. “Plus, I’m not taking a lecture from the guy whose fashion sense boils down to striped ties and sweater vests.”

Goro glanced down at his blue sweater vest. “You don’t like it? This is my favorite sweater.”

“I can tell. This is, like, my third time seeing you wear it.” Akira’s cat let out a string of meows from inside his bag, prompting Akira to laugh. He grabbed a few fries, tossing them towards Morgana. “Here. Now don’t complain about how I’m starving you next time I go out for sushi with friends and forget to bring some tuna home for you.”

“Hmm, sushi does sound good,” Goro hummed, poking at his salad. “Sae-san takes me out for sushi sometimes, but she only ever gets me the conveyor belt stuff.”

“I’m not buying you sushi.”

“I never implied that you would be buying it, but since you brought it up—”

“No.”

“Consider it compensation for the comment about my sweater.” Goro gestured towards Morgana, who looked like he was about to tear through Akira’s bag and lunge at him with demands of fatty tuna. “It seems like your cat agrees with me.”

Akira gave Morgana a dirty look. “Ugh, look what you've done! You’ve poisoned Akechi! Now I have two freeloaders begging me for free food.” Morgana gave a small meow, and Akira’s look only got dirtier. “Do not bring Yusuke into this or so help me—”

Goro bent down to Morgana’s level, scratching him behind the ears. “Is Kurusu-kun starving you? Do I need to open a case against him?” Morgana mewed in response.

“The stains of cat food on my bed sheets would like to have a word with you.” Morgana pawed against Akira’s leg. “What? I am not letting you move in with Akechi!”

Goro laughed. “I know I was teasing you for talking to your cat, but it really does feel like he’s talking back to us sometimes.”

“Well, that’s because I have a talking cat.” Akira bent over, seizing Morgana from his bag and holding him out towards Goro. “Watch this— Morgana, say something.”

“Mrow.”

“I speak cat. He just told you to pay for my food.”

Goro let out a small laugh. “I can’t say I’m fluent in cat, so I won’t argue with your translation,” he gestured towards his small basket of edamame beans, “but if anything, I believe you should be paying for my food, because I’ve caught you stealing my edamame multiple times.”

Akira feigned surprise. “What? You’re accusing me of starving my cat and being a thief? How lowly do you think of me?”

“Save your defense for court,” Goro laughed, pushing his edamame away from Akira.

Akira waggled his eyebrows at Goro. “The Detective Prince and a thief, huh?”

“Barista, cat whisperer, and thief. You have quite the resume.” Goro slipped his hand into Akira’s basket of fries, tossing one onto the floor in front of Morgana.

Akira gasped. “The accuser becomes the accused! In a shocking twist, the detective was the real criminal all along!”

Goro hid his mouth behind his hand, trying and failing to keep Akira from seeing him laugh.

“I can’t believe you turned to a life of crime! What would Black Condor say about this?” Akira teased.

Goro snorted. His face was red with embarrassment, his hand plastered over his mouth in an attempt to suppress the disgusting noises coming from his mouth. Akira took this moment of weakness to snatch a few more edamame from Goro’s plate, only causing him to laugh harder.

Akira smiled, taking in Goro’s laughs. “I assume you’ll be adding involuntary manslaughter to my list of charges, detective?”

“You’re so corny,” Goro said between snorts. He desperately tried to compose himself between gasps, taking one final inhale and letting it out with a sigh. His face was the same color as the ketchup on Akira’s plate. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” he mumbled.

“Please don’t apologize.” Akira’s eyes were wide. “I should really get you to laugh like that again some time.”

It wasn’t often that Goro watched TV. He never had the time, really, with how packed his schedule was at all times. Any time spent in front of a TV was likely used to catch up on reruns of Featherman episodes he missed, or an occasional glance at the news that was usually cut short when that bastard’s face decided to so-pleasantly grace the TV of Goro’s apartment. Even if he did have the time to tune into his TV, he could confidently say that he would not tune into this slop.

“If the Phantom Thieves were real, I truly hope that they don’t change my heart. That isn’t to say that it wouldn’t be deserved— I did cheat on my homework once when I was a child, and the guilt has been eating me away since,” Goro smiled.

The TV host casted the same smile as Goro. “Oh, you were a bit of a troublemaker as a child, weren’t you?” She laughed. “But it seems like your parents managed to whip you into shape! You have a lot ahead of you— a star detective at your age, and I heard that you started studying for your college entrance exams!”

Goro’s laugh was nauseating. The audience laughed with him, the same canned laughter that he was so used to hearing.

“Ah, please don’t remind me of entrance exams! My job is the only break I get from studying!”

As if on cue, the audience laughed again. Goro questioned why he even bothered with the pleasantries if simply holding a sign that said Laugh would have the same effect. In fact— was everyone in the audience aware of how contrived this entire ordeal was, or were they too stupid to realize that every person in the room was just as fake as they were?

“That explains why you’ve been so slow to update your food blog lately!” The TV host replied. “With all that studying you’re doing, I sure hope your mother is a good chef, because you must be living off of nothing but home cooked meals!”

Goro’s smile twitched. “Oh, I wish! Unfortunately, most nights it’s just stove top ramen for me. On the rare occasion that I have the time to go out, I find myself frequenting the same cafe. I guess you could say I’m a regular.”

The TV host gestured to the crowd. “Could we get some exclusive recommendations for our viewers from the Detective Prince himself?”

Goro winked at the audience. “Aha, it’s my little secret~”

The audience erupted in applause as the talk show’s end jingle played, Goro giving small ‘thank yous’ and waves to the crowd. He soaked in every clap, every lifeless cheer like he was a parasite, completely dependent on the praise of others. It wrapped around him, embraced him with a warmth that was so unfamiliar to him, yet so addictive that nothing else in his life mattered, the cheers being just loud enough to drown out the voice of his degenerate father calling him a disappointment, his mother’s hushed words sending him away to the bathhouse, the loud BANG of a gun as a shadow begged for its life. He suffocated the sound in the back of his head that told him to imagine Akira’s voice among the crowd.

The echoes of applause swelled in his head as he made his way back to his dressing room, his gloves folded neatly on the table as he shuffled through his briefcase for the makeup remover. The reflection of the Detective Prince shone in the large vanity mirror, doe-eyed and plastic, the very face that captured the hearts of millions in Tokyo. He grabbed a wipe and slowly dabbed it underneath his eye, removing the thick layer of concealer and exposing the purple-tinted skin. The gloss was wiped off of his lips, uncovering the dry, raw skin underneath. No amount of chapstick could save his awful skin-picking habit, but at least makeup and gloves could hide it.

He looked at the used wipe in his hand, smeared in makeup, the very mask that made the Detective Prince. His eyes shifted to the mirror, and the reflection of Goro Akechi stared back at him, hollow-eyed and jaded, a face that not even a mother could love. The face of a child who wanted nothing more than that toy gun he saw in the window, and the teen who was broken beyond repair, willing to take the world down with him if it meant that he could feel loved again.

The teen who was tired, truly tired, and wanted nothing more than to go to sleep.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

Akira fidgeted with the capsule in his hands, rolling it along Leblanc’s wooden countertop. He shuffled through his brain, rattling around for any luck rituals he could think of; there were no clover patches near Leblanc, nor was it dark enough to see a shooting star, and he was sure that the last thing Sojiro would want was to see Akira throwing salt around the cafe.

Morgana would be his lucky charm, he decided. Surely nothing bad could happen if one were to focus all their luck on a black cat.

“Morgana, could you like, rub on this with your paw or something?” Akira asked, rolling the capsule between his hands.

“I am not— Hey!” Morgana yelped as Akira shoved the capsule in his face. He swatted it away with his paw.

“And now, for the moment of truth…” Akira blew hurried breaths on the capsule a few times as a safe measure, and then slowly began to peel the plastic wrap away. He popped open the top carefully, hands quivering as he grabbed—

“Yellow Owl? Really?”

“Disappointed?” Sojiro’s voice called from the sink.

“It was his fault!” Akira pointed towards Morgana, whose tail shot up in surprise.

“Me? You’re the one who assaulted me with that thing!” He whacked the empty capsule with his tail, knocking it to the floor with a clatter.

“You were my good luck charm! You betrayed me!”

Sojiro walked over, drying his hands on his apron. He picked up the Yellow Owl figure from the spot where it sat rejected on the counter, bringing it up towards his glasses and squinting. “Oh, I recognize this character.”

“Since when were you into Featherman?” Akira asked, his chin resting on the table in bitterness.

“Oh, I’ve never watched it. I just know someone who’s a fan.”

Akira was once again hit with the shocking fact that Sojiro had a life outside of Leblanc. “Is it your secret girlf—”

“I really wish you’d cut that out,” Sojiro sighed, “but if you have no use for this, I’m willing to take it off your hands.”

“Take it. I don’t want it,” Akira said, a personal vendetta against Yellow Owl now awoken within him.

“Which figure do you have your eye on?” Sojiro asked, putting the cursed relic in his pocket.

“The black one.” Akira puffed his cheeks, blowing a strand of hair out of his face.

“Hmm.” Sojiro’s hand touched his beard. “I’ll see what I can do about it.”

Akira imagined Sojiro in Akihabara of all places, a large pile of coins next to him as he fed them into the gashapon machines, slowly getting more and more bitter as countless Yellow Owls flooded out. Maybe, in this cursed alternate reality, he could meet up with Akechi at the Tokobushiya goods shop. He wondered what they’d talk about, but promptly extinguished the thought when he realized that the conversation would mainly consist of Akechi interrogating Sojiro with questions about Akira’s life.

Sojiro’s phone gave a small ping from the countertop. He took a quick glance at his screen, smiling to himself before saying, “I’m heading out for the night. Can you close the shop for me?”

“Mhmm,” Akira mumbled as Sojiro untied his apron, tapping a quick response on his phone and walking out the door. Akira turned towards Morgana. “Are your little cat paws good at giving massages?”

“These aren’t cat paws!” Morgana hissed. “And do you really want me digging my claws into your back?”

Akira thought for a moment. “Are they sharp enough to dig out the stress of mafia bosses and flying banks? Just when you thought you’ve seen everything the Metaverse has to offer—” Akira was interrupted by a small rumble from his phone, lifting his head off the counter to glimpse at the screen: a new message from Ohya, along with a couple of older messages from his friends.

He groaned. “How does Ryuji have the energy to go out right now? I don’t even think I can drag myself to bed.”

“Do you wanna close up and head upstairs for the night?” Morgana asked, passively licking at his paw.

“You’re not gonna believe this, but my past self was a bit of an idiot and made plans with Akechi for tonight.”

Morgana scrubbed his face with his paw. “You could always cancel.”

Akira sighed. “I think I’ll survive. All we’re doing is watching a few episodes of Featherman in my room.” He prayed that Akechi had the mindfulness to notice that Akira was barely conscious enough to lift his own head up, and maybe not make demands of coffee with a side of intellectual debate, but whatever god was cruel enough to scheme tonight’s fated meetup clearly did not have the foresight to consider how much of a pain in the ass Akechi could be sometimes. Hopefully, one of tonight’s lineup of Featherman episodes had a lesson on boundaries, because Akira was becoming convinced that Black Condor was the only one who could teach Akechi the vital skill of taking no for an answer.

Akira decided to close his eyes until Akechi arrived, salvaging his last crumbs of patience with a couple of extra minutes of sleep. He was pulled from a dream about Ann forcing him to model in a heap of clothes she purchased from Harajuku— which honestly felt more like a prophecy— by the sound of Leblanc’s door opening and the loud jingle of the bell.

Akira peeled his eyelids open, only managing to force them into a squint. “Akechi…” he groaned.

“Hello, Kurusu-kun.” He ignored the state of Akira’s corpse on the counter. “Before you make my usual cup of coffee, I was actually hoping to try something new today.”

Akira’s mind flashed with images of the cruelest ways to torture Akechi— he could post his live location on a forum filled with his most rabid fangirls, or sneak the spiciest peppers Leblanc had to offer into his food. He wondered what it would be like to trap Akechi and Crow in a room together, just to see who would snap first.

Before Akira could respond, Akechi added, “Actually, I’m quite hungry, and I do remember an offer of curry that you made last week…”

Akira mustered the most exhausted, miserable look he was capable of making. “Akechi. Look at me.”

Akechi put his hand to his chin, inspecting Akira like he was a suspect in a police lineup. “I carry a spare hairbrush in my briefcase if you’d like to borrow it.”

“We’re closed.”

“I believe the sign outside said that this establishment was open, actually,” Akechi smiled.

If looks could kill, Akira would be in a police lineup, and Akechi would be laying in some casket as his body was lowered into the ground. Akira raised his head off the table, lugging his body to the door like he was strapped to a bag of bricks. He thrusted the door open, twisting the sign with a harsh smack, before flinging the door shut and slogging back to his seat at the counter.

“We’re closed.”

“Ah, what a disappointment. I was really looking forward to that curry.” Akechi walked over to his usual chair, taking a seat next to Akira. He folded his arms on the counter and rested his head on them like they were a pillow, facing Akira, whose head was also resting on the counter.

Akechi’s eyes scanned Akira’s features, studying every detail of his face like his college entrance exams would be asking the exact number of lashes on each of Akira’s eyes. The look on Akechi’s face was almost innocent— not quite the Detective Prince, but more like the Akechi he saw in Akihabara.

Akira grimaced at Akechi, and then puckered his lips and blew in his face. Akechi jolted, nose wrinkling and eyebrows creasing in pure disgust. “The offer to borrow my hairbrush is still open, but unfortunately you’ll need to find your own toothbrush.”

“Mmm… can you carry me up the stairs? I’m too tired to use my legs.”

Akechi thought for a moment. “I’d say my upper body strength is quite good, actually, since I go bouldering so often. But I charge a fee of one cup of coffee per five steps I carry you.”

Akira rolled his eyes. “You suck.”

After mustering every last bit of energy into toiling up the stairs, each step feeling like its own workout, Akira found himself planted face-first in his bed, Morgana curled on his back as the sound of Akechi dragging furniture filled the room. Akira heard him shuffling through a bin and fidgeting with the buttons on the TV, humming to himself.

“This looks much more comfortable than last time, doesn’t it?” Akechi asked, his hands on his hips. Akira rolled his face off of his mattress, looking at Akechi’s setup. The couch was put in front of the TV, and pillow that Akira didn’t even notice Akechi take from his bed was set against the arm of the couch. Akechi sat on the side opposite of the pillow. He looked back at Akira, his eyes flickering to the Red Hawk figure on the windowsill. He smiled.

Akira took a deep breath, forcing his body into the difficult task of walking to the other side of the attic and crawling onto the couch. He immediately curled up into the pillow, draping his legs over Akechi’s lap. Akechi hid his face behind his hand.

Akira felt the heavy weight of exhaustion overcome him, forcing his eyelids closed. He started to doze off, the soft touch of someone rubbing small circles into his calf lulling him to sleep.

Akira woke up with a sharp pain in his neck and a lump on his chest. He slowly peeled his eyes open, only to be greeted by Morgana, who was curled in a little black ball, fast asleep. Akira fished for his phone in his pocket to check the time. A handful of messages from Akechi were displayed on his lock screen. Akira opened his messenger app.

Thank you for tonight. I left a bit after I noticed that you fell asleep. The door downstairs wasn’t locked, so I made sure to lock it on my way out. I hope you slept well, because the position you fell asleep in looked rather uncomfortable, but I felt too guilty to try to wake you up.

Attached was a picture of Morgana on the windowsill, sniffing at the Red Hawk figurine.

Akira smiled to himself, tapping out a message complaining of a cramped neck. He gently shook Morgana awake.

“It’s time to get ready for school.”

Morgana curled into his little ball even tighter. “Five more minutes.”

Akira laughed, placing Morgana on the pillow and getting up to grab a clean uniform. He packed his bag, wolfed down his usual breakfast of curry, and ignored Morgana’s further cries for five more minutes of sleep, giving Sojiro a quick goodbye and taking his morning walk to the subway station.

Akira’s morning commute was riddled with text messages from Ryuji, making not-so-subtle demands to infiltrate Kaneshiro’s palace after school, which extended into at least three in-person ambushes in the hallway throughout the school day. Even Makoto managed to hunt him down during his lunch break, but at the very least, she tried to be more subtle than Ryuji.

There were far more places Akira would rather be right now, his bed being at the top of the list, but being blackmailed had its consequences, and running through a bank floating atop Shibuya happened to be one of them.

“Man, this Kaneshiro guy is such a drag. Those security officers, like, totally kicked Fox’s ass!” Skull rummaged through Joker’s hoard of snacks, which sat in a large pile on the table in the middle of the safe room.

Fox gasped. “They did no such thing.”

Skull picked up a chocolate bar, inspecting it closely before tossing it to the side in favor of a soda. “Nah man, they totally did.” He cracked the can open. “You would’ve been knocked down if I didn’t come n’ save ya.”

Fox seemed to consider this carefully, examining Skull between the frame of his fingers as if he were taking a photo. “I see it now… A damsel in distress… A passionate rescue… Oh, how devoted one must be to—”

“Dude.”

Queen, completely uninterested in Fox’s eccentricities, interjected, “I think we should discuss our next plan of action.”

Joker sat in the chair opposite to Queen, nibbling on a cookie as he nodded along to her infiltration plans. As the conversation began to turn more into the realm of chatter, with Panther discussing her latest modeling gig and Skull complaining about homework that he had no intention of doing, Joker’s mind started to drift. The word damsel triggered the memory of his competition with Crow, the unabashedly bloodthirsty look in his eyes as he massacred an entire hoard of shadows with ease.

He imagined what it would be like if Crow were in this safe room with the rest of the Thieves. He would be leaned against the wall, arms crossed as he observed the rest of the Thieves’ banter. He couldn’t imagine Crow caring enough to actually make acquaintance with the team, but maybe he would butt into the conversation if he heard Joker say something especially insult-worthy. He most definitely would attempt to dethrone Queen as lead strategist, probably leading to many arguments between the two. He didn’t think Ryuji would put up with Crow either, especially with how disparaging Crow could be at times.

Maybe it was for the best that Crow wasn’t a part of the Phantom Thieves.

“Joker, are you okay?” He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, shaking him lightly. He looked up, his eyes meeting with Panther’s.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Your face was so red that I was worried you stopped breathing,” she said, gesturing to Joker’s cheeks.

“Oh, sorry. I had something spicy,” he laughed.

Queen glanced at the food in his hand. “Joker, you’re eating a chocolate chip cookie.”

“Ridiculous, right? The shadows are poisoning our food supply with wasabi.”

“Wait, what?” Skull’s eyes went wide. “Is that why this soda feels so weird in my mouth?”

“I believe that’s called carbonation,” Queen said.

“Hey! I know what carbonation is! I’m just sayin’ that this soda sucks ass.”

Fox turned towards the group. “Skull, are you in need of a chevalier to save you from the wasabi-wielding shadows of this palace? It would be a fascinating subversion of the damsel in d—”

“We are not doin’ this again.”

Joker took the banter as an opportunity to change the subject away from his moment of weakness. “Well, if everyone’s rested up, then we should probably head out to the next part of the palace.”

The rest of the team nodded and started to pack their things, Fox holding the door for everyone as they left. As Panther exited, she gave Joker a look that said We’re having a talk later.

Joker really didn't like that look.

Ann sat in the booth across from Akira, happily eating her slice of chocolate cake that Morgana had tried to swipe bites from three separate times, completely ignoring Akira’s warnings that cats can’t eat chocolate.

“You’re not getting, like, real food?” Akira asked, taking a bite from his sandwich.

“This diner has the best chocolate cake, though!” Ann said. “Plus, they didn’t have crepes on the menu, and I’m really in the mood for sweets.”

“We could’ve stopped somewhere else.”

“The diner was closest, and I’m way too tired to go anywhere else,” Ann pointed at Akira with her fork, “and we need to have a talk about that look on your face back in Kaneshiro’s palace.”

“That’s what you wanted to talk about?” Akira made a face like Ann was threatening to leak embarrassing photos of him asleep, with unsavory doodles drawn on his face.

“What else would it possibly be about?”

“Um, let’s see… Something personal, school gossip, maybe the fact that we’re being blackmailed by a mafia boss…” Akira started listing.

“Well, wouldn’t this technically fall under gossip?” Ann winked. “Because I know that face totally wasn’t about— what was your excuse again? Oh, spicy food!”

“Um, I’ll have you know that wasabi warfare is becoming a Metaverse-wide epidemic.”

“Yeah, I’m not falling for that one.” Ann poked at her cake with her fork. “I’m not as easy to trick as Ryuji.”

“Are you accusing me of tricking Ryuji?” Akira feigned offense. “I would never do such a thing!”

“Stop changing the subject!” Ann laughed. “You were totally blushing.”

“Nuh uh.”

Ann pursed her lips. “I saw you… staring towards Yusuke…” She gasped. “You have a thing for Yusuke!?”

“That relationship would be doomed from the start, because I don’t think Yusuke has ever had a romantic thought in his life outside of the context of art.”

“Hmm… you’re right.” Ann thought for a moment. “Makoto?”

“I would never fool myself into thinking I could pull Makoto.”

Ann was so deep in thought that Akira swore he could see steam coming out of her ears. She suddenly gasped loudly, dropping her fork in shock. “Ryuji?!” She practically yelled.

“I love Ryuji dearly, but not like that.” Akira swatted Morgana’s paw away from his plate.

“It’s not me, is it?”

“Nope.”

“But you’re not denying that there’s someone!” Ann leaned in, eyes wide.

“You know what?” Akira’s face looked devilish. “There is someone— but I’m not telling you who, unless you can manage to guess it— and I know the curiosity is going to absolutely kill you.”

Ann gasped. “That’s dirty! You know my weakness!”

Akira picked at his sandwich while Ann tossed as many guesses as she could come up with.

“Miss Kawakami?” Ann asked.

“Are you implying I have a thing for our teacher?”

“Akechi-kun?”

“Oh god, no.”

“Mishima?”

“Scraping the bottom of the barrel now, are we?”

Ann sighed. “I’m out of guesses.”

Morgana’s head peered from the table. “Can I take a guess?”

“Hey Morgana. Do you want some of my chips?” Akira asked, sliding the chips off of his plate and onto the booth. Morgana’s ears perked up as he was showered in food. He accepted the bribe happily, but shot Akira a face identical to Ann’s 'We’re having a talk later' look. Akira sighed.

It was going to be a long night.

“We need to talk about Crow.” Morgana jumped from the floor to Akira’s bed, trying his best and failing at getting to eye level with Akira.

Akira sighed. “I knew this was coming.”

“You’ve been making me follow you two around, and I know what’s up.” Morgana squinted at Akira.

“You got me.” Akira raised his hands in defeat.

“Pinning him against a wall? Really? I wanted to look away, but I had to keep watching to make sure he didn’t kill you.”

“Look, it was a heat of the moment thing!” Akira defended.

“Your taste concerns me.” Morgana folded his ears, letting out a sigh.

Akira crossed his arms. “C’mon, don’t act like you wouldn’t do the same if you could.”

“I would never do such a thing to Lady Ann!” Morgana jutted his paw at Akira’s thigh. “Plus, Crow seems dangerous. I mean, you saw that outburst he had!”

Akira smirked to himself. “Yeah, I did.”

Morgana swatted him with his tail. “You’re gross.”

“Oh, Lady Ann! I dragged Akira all the way to Shibuya Station so I could get this bouquet of flowers that I totally paid for myself! The roses reminded me of the color of your catsuit!” Akira impersonated.

“I do not sound like that.”

Akira scratched behind Morgana’s ears, sitting on the bed next to him. “I’m just teasing you!”

“You better be!” Morgana crawled onto Akira’s lap. “Plus, the roses worked.”

“Mhmm, they sure did,” Akira hummed.

“And when I’m back in my human form, Lady Ann will be all over me.”

“Total ladykiller.”

Morgana purred. “I promise not to tell the others about Crow if you promise to get me some fatty tuna.”

“Oh, I’ll get you all the fatty tuna you want.”

“And Akechi.”

“Too far.”

“Look, Akechi joined forces with me the other day, so it’s only fair that I get something for my ally-in-sushi. Unless…” Morgana started pawing at Akira’s pocket, going for his phone.

“Hey, hey, hey— Fine!” Akira slipped his phone out of his pocket, shooting Akechi a quick invite and mumbling, “It’s not like you’d be able to text everyone with your paws, anyway.”

“Would you rather me loudly announce it in the middle of Kaneshiro’s palace?”

Akira squinted. “You win.”

Morgana very much held Akira on his promise of free sushi. The next day, he found himself in one of the most expensive sushi restaurants in Tokyo, Morgana concealed away in his bag while Akechi sat next to him, eyes scanning the menu.

“Hmm… what about sea eel and black truffle…” Akechi mumbled to himself. Akira felt a dagger stab right through his wallet. “You really let your cat talk you into this?” He asked.

“He blackmailed me,” Akira corrected.

Akechi raised an eyebrow. “Your cat blackmailed you?”

Morgana’s muffled voice shouted from Akira’s bag, “I threatened him with an embarrassing secret! I know his—"

“Shut up about the crush thing!” Akira hushed.

Akechi looked like he was about to drop his menu. “The what thing?”

“See, you got him going,” Akira hissed at Morgana.

“You got him going. He can’t understand me,” Morgana corrected.

“You still brought it up.”

Morgana poked his head out of the bag. “Crow, Crow, Crow! Akira has a crush on Crow! See, he can’t understand m—”

Akira thrusted Morgana’s head back into his bag. “One more peep outta you and you’ll be saying goodbye to your fatty tuna.”

“Oh, wow, there sure are a lot of school supplies in this bag. It would be a shame if I wrote something down with this pen and paper.”

“You will not—”

“So, who is this crush you speak of?” Akechi’s face was concerningly similar to the bloodthirsty look Crow wore while he was slaughtering shadows.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Akira crossed his arms.

“Mmm, Morgana, doesn’t this caviar look good? What if we ordered a nice big bowl of it?”

“Oh, you’re dirty,” Akira said. “Look, it’s nobody you know.”

“How could you be sure of that? You seem to be forgetting that I’m a public figure.” Akechi was gripping the menu so tightly that Akira was sure his knuckles were white under his gloves.

“They’re from out of town.”

“What’s she like?” Akechi asked almost immediately.

“He’s very… I don’t really know how to describe him.”

“Terrifying,” Morgana’s voice peeped from Akira’s bag.

The flame in Akechi’s eyes only blazed more fiercely. “Have I ever mentioned that one of my foster homes was from out of town?”

Akira raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Akechi’s expression was so similar to Crow’s that it genuinely frightened Akira. He pictured Akechi with Crow’s laser saber, slashing into a row of shadows and wiping the grime off of his sweater vest. Maybe he’d fix his hair afterwards, and touch up his makeup in a pocket-sized vanity mirror— he seemed to have a strange obsession with being photographable at every moment.

While Morgana happily devoured his tuna, Akechi was very visibly not having a good time. His face was contorted in a harsh scowl as he crushed little grains of rice on his plate like they were ants.

“Not even gonna try to hide the bad mood this time?” Akira asked.

“Do you expect me to flash you with a smile at all times?”

“Hey, don’t blame your inhuman expectations on me,” Akira defended. “Plus, I like seeing you like this.”

“You like seeing me in agony?” Akechi glowered.

“No, I like seeing you showing human emotions for once. I invited you here so I could spend a night with Goro Akechi, not with the Detective Prince— and also because my cat blackmailed me.”

Akechi stared at Akira like he simply could not comprehend the fact that someone would rather talk to a human being than a flawless TV personality. He flaunted his trademark smile at Akira. “So, I suppose you aren’t too fond of this expression?”

“You look like a serial killer.”

Akechi’s face immediately shifted back to his frown. “You know, you’re one of only two people who have told me that.”

“Who’s the other one?” Akira took a sip of his miso soup— the cheapest item on the menu.

“He’s, um, from out of town.”

“Mhm,” Akira rolled his eyes.

“Sometimes it feels like people are more interested in the Detective Prince than they are in Goro Akechi,” Akechi sighed, before his eyes went wide with a look that screamed ‘I did not mean to say that out loud.’ His Detective Prince smile beamed on his mouth for a second before he consciously wiped it off his face.

“Well, I like the Akechi who’s a closet nerd with a Black Condor obsession and an affinity for squishing his rice into a pulp with his chopsticks.”

Akechi glanced down at his plate, which had become a graveyard of compressed grains of rice. “Oh. I guess I did get a bit out of hand…” He mumbled. His mouth became a firm line, and a deep blush spread across his cheeks. “You know, I always seem to open up a lot more than I intend to whenever I talk to you.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Akira smiled.

“I suppose it isn’t all too bad,” Akechi smiled back. His smile was crooked.

Akira signaled towards a waiter to bring over their check. The waiter promptly handed him a long bill, and when Akira’s eyes darted to the price on the bottom, his jaw visibly dropped. He pictured himself in Shibuya’s Underground Walkway with Yusuke, begging random passersby for a measly 200 yen for subway fare.

Akechi pulled the check from Akira’s hands. “I’ll be treating you.”

Morgana’s faint voice could be heard from Akira’s bag. “That was not the deal—”

Akira jabbed the bag with his elbow. “Aww Akechi, how considerate of you.”

“You’ve been spoiling me with coffee over the past few weeks,” Akechi said, pulling out his wallet. “It’s the least I could do.”

If Akira was a noble person, he would mention that Akechi did, in fact, pay for that coffee, and Akira was, for all intents and purposes, an employee at Leblanc. However, Akechi was the only thing standing between Akira and Yusuke’s life of beggary.

Akechi’s wallet would survive.

Akira walked side by side with Akechi, huddled under his umbrella as they made their way to the subway station. Akechi’s hair was shaggier than usual, being tossed around by the wind, and a few stray raindrops peppered his cheeks.

“Ugh, everyone’s gonna think we’re a couple,” Akira groaned.

“It’s not my fault that you forgot to check the weather forecast before you left Leblanc,” Akechi said.

Akira scowled.

“If you hate it that much, you’re always free to walk in the rain.” Akechi gestured to the downpour surrounding them. “Just don’t complain when you have to ride the subway with wet clothes.”

“I think I’m good,” Akira grumbled, “but are you not concerned about people snapping photos of us sharing an umbrella and sharing it around?”

Akechi did not respond.

“‘Akechi-san, do you have a comment to make about the recent photos of you that were leaked on social media, where you were seen sharing an umbrella with another man?’” Akira mocked. He did his best to mimic Akechi, giving a wide, toothy smile and speaking in a delicate voice. “‘Ah, you see, the rumors are true— the man in the picture is my husband. We eloped a few days ago. He’s clearly using me for free sushi, but at least the sex is good.’”

Akechi’s eye twitched.

Akira laughed to himself. “I can hear the sound of thousands of teenage girls in Tokyo having their hearts collectively shattered after they find out that you’re gay.”

Akechi took a step sideways, completely exposing Akira to the rain.

“Hey! Let me back in!” Akira huddled back under the umbrella, shaking his hair out like a dog and completely pelting Akechi in raindrops.

“Do you mind?” Akechi asked.

“You soaked me.”

“Your joke was a bit tasteless.” Akechi pushed a wet strand of hair out of his eyes.

“Was it the gay joke that upset you, or the part about us getting eloped?”

“That is perhaps one of the most absurd things you’ve ever asked me,” Akechi said. “Besides, your impression of me was horrible. I’d never openly admit to being gay on television— you know that a huge part of my image is centered around my fangirls.”

Akira rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’ve had to come up with pretty creative ways to dodge the dreaded ‘What type of girls do you like?’ question. Right now, I tell them that I’m too busy studying for entrance exams to think about romance.”

“But you’re implying that you have thought about romance?” Akira asked.

Akechi’s face turned red. “You’re one ridiculous question away from having tonight’s bill mailed to Leblanc. I’ll charge you for the postage stamp, too.”

The wise part of Akira’s brain told him to keep quiet for the rest of the walk.

Akechi folded his umbrella when they arrived at the station. Despite needing to take a different subway line from Akira, he walked with him as far as he could without needing to pay subway fare.

Akira was about to swipe his subway pass at the turnstile until he heard Akechi give a quick “Wait.”

Akira turned around, leaning against the turnstile. He raised an eyebrow.

“I just wanted to say,” Akechi paused for a moment, looking like he was quite literally choking on his words, “thank you. For what you said back at the sushi restaurant. It meant a lot. Really.” Akechi looked like every word coming out of his mouth was a knife stabbing him in the chest.

“You better be taking those words to heart, because I’m sick of the Detective Prince. If I wanted him, I’d just turn on my TV.”

Akira couldn’t quite read Akechi’s expression. It was a strange mix between gratitude and a profound sadness. Akechi gave a small wave. “I’ll see you around.”

“I look forward to meeting the real you, Akechi.”

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

Figuring out Joker’s identity wasn’t necessary.

It would be useful, yes, to have a name for the Phantom Thief. Someone he could observe in the real world, perhaps even befriend to use to his advantage. But there were still ways to use the Phantom Thieves without knowing who they truly were.

Goro sat on the couch of his apartment, laptop perched on his thighs as his eyes scanned the Phan-site forums carefully. Something about using his laptop without his gloves on felt wrong— in fact, working in his pajamas was something that he really didn’t like to do, but the Phantom Thieves case called for these kinds of sacrifices to be made. He glanced down at his argyle pajama pants, a scowl littering his face as he thought about Akira’s comment about his sweater vest.

The Phan-site had been quite a useful source of intel for Goro— it was what got him into contact with Joker in the first place, and gave him a way to track Phantom Thief activity outside of the headlines they were beginning to make. Fame was clearly not the sole motivator of the Thieves, as there have been far too many instances of a change in heart occurring in everyday people— people who the media cared too little to report on, and the public deemed as irrelevant. The Thieves seemed to have some sort of savior complex, Goro concluded, thinking back to Joker’s strange insistence on having Crow open up to him.

Goro tied his hair in a messy ponytail and turned his attention to a spreadsheet he had opened in another window, which charted various reports from the Phan-site. Goro had deemed these reports as especially noteworthy— cases that dealt with abuse, murder, animal cruelty, or anything else that the Thieves’ pathetic savior complex would be unable to ignore.

What struck him as odd was the number of reports that people posted which failed to name their target. Goro was aware of how important names were in the Metaverse, his use of the nickname Crow making it impossible for Joker to discern Goro’s real identity despite him being an easily identifiable public figure— meaning that the Thieves either had to ignore any anonymous reports, or they had to gather their own intel. It simply was not possible to target an anonymous entity in the Metaverse.

Goro paused for a moment.

He grabbed his phone from the cushion next to him, swiftly unlocking it and opening his messenger app. He ignored the way that his hands trembled as he typed out a quick message and sent it to Shido.

Anonymity may be the very thing that destroys the Phantom Thieves.

Despite the weather calling for short sleeves, Goro still decided to wear his gloves today. There was something about their familiarity that he found comfort in, even if it meant that his hands got a bit warm throughout the day.

He gave a polite smile to a passerby who seemed to recognize him as he made his short walk from the subway station to Leblanc. Leblanc had become another safe haven for him, small and tucked away in a little corner of the neighborhood, isolated from any press or cameras. While he was occasionally recognized around these parts, the people of Yongen-Jaya seemed to have the common sense not to approach Goro while he was busy with his own affairs.

He approached the cafe, the familiar jingle of a bell greeting him as he stepped inside.

“Welcome to— Oh, it’s just you again,” Sakura said from behind the counter.

A mop of black hair peered from one of the booths, looking at Goro with bug-like eyes.

“Hello, Kurusu-kun.” Goro gave a small wave, walking over to the booth. Akira was hunched over the table, a mug of coffee in one hand and a ballpoint pen in the other. A newspaper was sprawled out in front of him, the spine creased so that the pages would stay in place. He clicked the pen rapidly as he hummed to himself, completely consumed by the crossword puzzle in front of him.

Goro leaned over, eyes scanning the page until they landed on a little star scribbled in the margins next to question ten.

10. Changes with the season.

“I believe the answer is wardrobe.” Goro pointed to the question.

“Hey, no spoilers!” Akira crossed his arms, sulking.

“Well, if I sat here and waited for you to solve it on your own, I was worried that we would be waiting here all night.” Goro took the booth across from Akira, sitting next to a sleeping Morgana. “I had already mentioned that I prefer to spend my free time on meaningful things.”

“Ah, yes, because there’s so much meaning in stealing crossword puzzles from me,” Akira let out a bitter laugh. His laugh seemed to wake Morgana up, who noticed Goro sitting next to him and moved onto his lap.

Akira’s face shifted into a pout. “Oh, you’re stealing my cat now, too? And the other day you called me the thief?”

“Morgana and I have gotten quite close within the past few days, wouldn’t you say?” Akechi asked, scratching behind the cat’s ears.

Akira ignored him, instead choosing to focus on his crossword puzzle. “12 down. A type of pest that usually invades homes.” He shot a glare at Goro. “I can’t figure this one out. I tried to put your name, but it didn’t fit.”

Goro leaned over, taking a glance at the puzzle. “Hmm… have you tried co*ckroach?”

Akira scowled, scribbling a hasty ‘co*ckroach’ in the boxes.

Goro drummed his fingers on the table. “Are you up for a game of billiards tonight?”

“Why’d you come all the way here just to ask me to go to Kichijoji?” Akira scribbled another word into the puzzle.

“Ah, well, I wanted to have a cup of coffee beforehand, and I was hoping to stop at the second hand shop across the street.”

Akira raised an eyebrow. “I’m cool with leaving now, if you’re okay with having your coffee to go.”

Goro gave a small hum. “I suppose that could work.”

The second hand shop was a bit smaller than the one near Goro’s apartment, but rather cramped, with various trinkets and antique furniture strewn about. The walls were almost entirely obscured in clocks and paintings, one of which was sitting in a frame engraved with the year 1917.

While Goro stopped by second hand shops occasionally, he sometimes questioned the types of things they had for sale. He glanced at the shirt rack in the back corner of the store, the shirt at the very front having text that commemorated a couple’s wedding, which was dated five years ago. Rolled up next to the rack was a group of carpets, one of which was so tacky that Goro thought it would be better used for fueling fires than furnishing one's home. To his left sat a tray of literal garbage, that not even the biggest idiot with a lifelong desire to burn a hole in their wallet would purchase.

Akira lingered over to the tray. “Oh, I’ve been needing one of these!” He said, grabbing a tin clasp from the very bottom.

Goro’s eye twitched. “Lucky enough to find some treasure here, I see!” He smiled.

Akira fidgeted with the clasp. “Why’d you drag me here, anyway? Looking for more Featherman tapes?”

“I wanted to get a VHS player,” Goro hummed, eyes scanning the dusty shelves.

“Oh, so my VHS player wasn’t good enough for your sophisticated tastes?” Akira laughed.

“When I said that I like to spend my time in meaningful ways… our nights watching Featherman together are some of my favorites. I really look forward to them.” The look on Akira’s face, wide-eyed and in awe, made Goro wonder if the tray of garbage happened to have an old needle and thread so he could sew his mouth shut. He tried to change the topic to something less… sentimental. His brain didn’t seem to be working. “I was hoping to invite you over to my apartment some time, actually. You’ve been hosting me a lot, and as I mentioned at the sushi restaurant, I’d like to return the favor.”

Akira smiled, and Goro prayed that he was wearing enough foundation to hide the hotness he felt in his cheeks.

They managed to find a VHS player, which was wedged between a box of old CDs and an American cookbook. The subway ride to Kichijoji was busier than usual at this time, Goro eavesdropping on a group of people talking about the Phantom Thieves while Morgana kneaded his paws into his thighs.

“You gonna go debate those complete strangers?” Akira asked, seemingly noticing how intensely Goro was staring at the group across the train car.

“What an absurd suggestion,” Goro scoffed.

“Absurd? You realize the reason we even met was because we debated about the Phantom Thieves.” Goro set a mental reminder to put some kind of curse on Joker when he saw him tomorrow, for being indirectly responsible for putting Akira in his life, polluting his mind with constant thoughts of his messy hair and his stupid smile when he had far more important things to occupy his mind with.

Goro spent the rest of the subway ride slightly bitter, taking small sips of the coffee that Akira prepared in a travel cup for him. Like the subway, Penguin Sniper was also fairly crowded, the chatter around them drowning out the faint music playing from the set of speakers near the bar. Goro leaned over the billiards table, cue in hand, eyes trained on the white ball in front of him. Trick shots weren’t particularly difficult for him, but using his non-dominant hand made them a bit of a risk. He struck the cue ball, which successfully hopped over the black ball and into the green ball, but not hard enough to pocket it.

“My, how unfortunate,” Goro sighed.

Akira wrinkled his nose. “I know you don’t swear because you’re trying to be polite, but I honestly think that whatever just came out of your mouth was more insulting, somehow,” he said. “Y’know, I’ve only seen you swear one time, back in Kichijoji.”

“My apologies,” Goro smiled. “If I was aware you were next to me, I would’ve stayed quiet.”

Akira rolled his eyes, and then grabbed his cue stick to take his shot, successfully landing the same trick shot that Goro attempted a mere minute ago. “If you played with your left hand like a normal person, I’m sure you would’ve made that shot.”

Goro felt a spark of anger deep in his gut. “Ah, but if I played with my dominant hand, it wouldn’t be a challenge. I’d like the game to be fair for the both of us.” He flashed a smile.

“You have a real talent for making bitter insults sound sickeningly sweet,” Akira said. Goro was most definitely not watching the way that Akira leaned across the table as he made his second shot. When Akira finished, he grabbed a piece of fried chicken from his little basket of food sitting on the snack table next to him. He nudged the basket towards Goro. “You want one?”

Goro gave a dismissive wave. “Ah, no thank you. I don’t eat fried food. It’s not good for my skin.”

“I’ve never seen you order anything from restaurants besides salads and vegetables— or illegally expensive sushi that one time, but we don’t talk about that.” Akira took a bite of his chicken. “Don’t you run a food blog? Do you just review produce on there?”

“It’s rude to speak with your mouth full,” Goro said, hiding the disgust on his face with a smile. “And I wasn’t aware that you knew about my blog.”

Akira swallowed. “Oh, you mentioned it on TV the other day. I haven’t actually looked at it.”

“You started watching my interviews?” Goro asked.

“Unwillingly. It was on the news and Sojiro refused to let me change the channel.”

Goro felt a knife stab him directly in the ego. “Well, what did you think this time?”

Akira put on his best Detective Prince smile. “If the Phantom Thieves were real, I truly hope that they don’t change my heart. That isn’t to say that it wouldn’t be deserved— I did cheat on my homework once when I was a child, and the guilt has been eating me away since!”

The knife twisted even deeper. “I suppose I can see why you found that to be a bit vapid, but it appeals to my audience.”

Goro’s eyes surveyed the billiards table, carefully deciding his next move as he adjusted the cue in his hands and leaned over the table. His next shot had to be flashy, impressive enough to wipe the grin off of Akira’s face and make him forget about his last blunder of a shot. He took a deep inhale, ready to strike the cue ball, until he was interrupted by an irritating tap tap tap that filled the room. Goro’s eyes shot towards Akira, who was snickering to himself as he hastily pecked at his keyboard.

“Your typing is quite disruptive,” Goro said, holding back the urge to tear Akira’s phone from his hands and dunk it in the nearest person’s drink.

Akira made a show of bringing his phone closer to his face, adjusting his glasses and reading, “Today, I went to Million Sweets to try their famous crepes! The way the hazelnut spread oozes from the crepe is so enticing, and the chocolate drizzled on top looks so sweet! The first bite was like a chocolatey explosion in my mouth. I can’t get enough! The strawberries are so fresh, I could see myself getting addicted to these. My only complaint is that I wish they could’ve added more powdered sugar!”

Akira was clutching his stomach, practically choking on his own laughter as Goro’s face turned so red that he wouldn’t be surprised if steam started spilling out of his ears. He resisted the urge to lunge at Akira and snap his phone in half, instead letting his lips curl into a nauseatingly sweet smile. “A-ah, yes… My fans are q-quite… fond of my blog,” he choked out.

Akira Kurusu was a mystery to Goro.

Quite possibly a bigger mystery than Joker. He didn’t view Goro as a tool, a simple means to an end that was unwanted unless he was needed for a certain task, in which case he was suddenly important and useful and the most vital tool in Shido’s arsenal of corrupt political allies. He didn’t view Goro as an idol, someone he could tote around as an accessory like he was some kind of autograph machine, only to be disposed of when Tokyo’s next big fad came up. To Akira, he was simply Goro Akechi. Someone who he treated with a sense of hospitality, someone he could tease and challenge and banter with, someone who constantly tested his wits with his strange way of thinking. Someone who saw him as an equal.

It made him feel sick.

“Long time no see.” Joker was leaning against the murky turnstile at the entrance of Mementos, a bag draped from his shoulder as he gave his all-too-familiar smirk.

The pair hadn’t managed to meet up within the past week due to Joker’s suspiciously packed schedule. Though, Crow couldn’t deny that he was also quite busy this week. With elections on the horizon, the number of Shido’s requests had skyrocketed, and Crow had been spending most of his time after school cooped up in palaces. Being able to use Loki for once was refreshing. He preferred to switch between his two Personas in combat, but his recent meetups with Joker had meant that Loki would have to stay hidden for now.

“I suppose we’ve both been too busy with other affairs to properly reconvene for a while, no?” Crow leaned on the turnstile next to Joker.

“Mhmm,” Joker hummed, “but I’m gonna be totally honest with you, I’m exhausted. I really don’t think I can run around Mementos today.”

Crow raised an eyebrow at Joker. “So you decided to waste my time instead?”

Joker shook the bag off of his shoulder, unzipping it and taking out a wooden board. “Actually, I was wondering if you were up for a game of shogi?”

Crow was impressed with Joker’s negotiation skills. The Phantom Thief had, somehow, talked him into wasting away his evening on a rather intense game of shogi. The two sat on the roof of an empty Mementos subway, snack wrappers surrounding Joker as he loudly crunched away on a box of Poterongu. Crow wasn’t surprised to learn that Joker could be rather competitive, but it shocked him to see just how invested he seemed to get into the game.

Joker slapped a piece on the board. “My troops advance, completely entrapping your king in a circle of foes. Not a single sound could be heard on the battleground, except the fierce sobs of your disgraceful king as he’s met face to face with his greatest enemy.” He looked at Crow with a jovial grin. “Checkmate.”

Crow’s mouth formed a strained smile. “Oh, you’re very… imaginative about shogi. Good game.”

Joker opened a bag of miniature cookies, tossing one into his mouth. “You sure you don’t want anything?”

“I’m not hungry,” Crow said, doing nothing to hide the disgust on his face from watching Joker stuff a convenience store’s worth of snacks into his mouth.

“Thirsty?” Joker asked, nudging a concerning amount of sugary drinks towards him, ranging from strawberry milk to three different kinds of soda. He fished into his pockets and grabbed a travel cup of coffee, adding it to the lineup of drinks.

“Your goldfish brain seems to be striking again, because I recall telling you that I’m picky about my coffee.”

“C’mon, you can’t say you don’t like it if you’ve never tried it!” Joker swayed the coffee in front of Crow’s face like it was a peaco*ck seducing him with a mating ritual.

Crow hated to admit that the smell coming from the cup was quite alluring. He took the coffee from Joker’s hand, inspecting it with pursed lips before taking a hesitant sip.

Crow should be ashamed to call himself a detective— an ace detective, at that— because as he took a slow sip of coffee, his brain was practically screaming something at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and he was a massive idiot for not being able to see the clear answer sitting in front of his eyes, but the screams seemed to be muffled under some sort of fog because Crow couldn’t decipher what they were trying to say.

Joker stared at Crow with wide eyes. “What do you think?”

“Hm… it’s quite good, actually, but you look like you need this more than me.”

Joker raised his arms in the air, stretching them high above his head before laying on the subway roof. “Mmhm… yeah,” he mumbled. “I’ve been so exhausted lately.”

“I can certainly tell,” Crow said, laying next to Joker. He stared at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the dark black webbing that writhed across the tiling like veins. Specks of red and black drifted through the air, almost looking like stars from the angle they were laying at. They sat in silence for a bit, nothing but the sound of their breaths filling the room.

“Do you ever feel like everything in your life is just… in disarray? Like one event changed everything, and now nothing makes sense anymore?” Joker asked.

Crow took a glance at Joker, who was gazing at him. He wondered how long Joker had been watching him for.

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” Joker said, “and there’s just been so much on my mind lately. It’s a lot, but I still feel happy, somehow.”

Happy. Crow didn’t think that anyone could be truly happy without being a little stupid. It was impossible to know the true essence of the world, the cruel, selfish nature of humanity, the way that people saw their peers as disposable pawns, while still maintaining enough naivety to call yourself truly happy.

Joker sighed. “I really don’t know where I’d be without my friends.” He looked at Crow with a smile that was so genuine, so filled with optimism that Crow wanted to rip it off his face and step on it. “I truly hope you have someone in your life that makes you feel the same way.”

Crow felt a pang of disgust burst down his spine at the mention of friends, which curled up his body and shot him directly in the heart. It was Joker’s savior complex, his disturbing obsession with being the hero in everyone’s lives, his incessant need to help Crow that made Crow feel downright ill. Joker was waving everything that Crow didn’t have— everything he should have— directly in his face, flaunting it with a smile.

He hated it, he told himself. The feeling in his chest, the strange sense of longing that clawed out of his body and strangled him, the same feeling he got when Shido showered him in praise, was the most sickening form of hatred, he repeated to himself.

He couldn’t stand it.

He wanted nothing to do with it.

Yet, for some strange reason, he found himself completely drawn to Joker.

He wasn’t sure why, but he quickly extinguished the thought before anything more could come from it.

Shido’s voice had been rattling inside of Goro’s head all day.

The way he looked at Goro like he was the biggest mistake of his life, spoke to him in a tone that echoed pure animosity. Goro was a disappointment right now— a deplorable puppet— and he felt the hammering in his heart that longed for the next time Shido would praise him, chasing that high like it was the only thing in his miserable life that held any meaning.

Goro stirred his coffee with a spoon, like the answers to his problems could be found in the little cloud of creamer that swirled around his mug.

“Not very talkative today, huh?” Akira said from behind the counter.

Goro chose not to respond, furrowing his brows instead. Akira shifted his attention to the TV, seemingly invested in a story about an envelope scam targeting high schoolers in Shibuya. He grabbed the remote from the counter, turning up the TV’s volume. As the story played, he whispered hushed words to Morgana, as if the cat was able to understand the concept of the mafia.

Goro continued to stir his coffee, getting lost in the clouds of brown and beige that twisted in little circles like the ball of anxiety in his stomach. From the corner of his eye, he saw Akira glance back at him for a quick second before turning back towards the TV.

Goro felt a sudden jolt in his body, a sick feeling that crawled up his spine and straight into his chest, his heart pounding so hard that he was fully convinced that it was going to explode, causing his lifeless body to slam onto the counter and roll onto the floor. Shido’s voice was coming from the TV, assaulting Goro’s ears like their meeting from the other day wasn’t enough to torment him— he had to assert his dominance over Goro’s life, even in the safety of Leblanc.

Goro was shaking, but he wasn’t sure if it was from sickening anxiety or a frenzy of rage, nor did he care to find out. He seized the remote from the countertop, refusing to take even a glance at the TV screen as his hands trembled over the buttons of the remote.

Akira, upon noticing the sudden switch in TV channels, turned around to face Goro. “Look, I was waiting for you to say something on your own, but something is clearly upsetting you.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Akechi.”

“I—” Goro ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t talk about it.”

“You mean you don’t want to?”

“No. I can’t,” Goro repeated.

Goro didn’t want to think of the absolute repulsion on Akira’s face if he opened up about Shido— or even worse— if Akira pitied him.

“Hmm,” Akira leaned over the counter. “Is there anything I could do to help?”

Help. The word rang in Goro’s ears a few times before he felt himself recoil at even the suggestion.

He decided to ignore the question. He wasn’t sure what to do, exactly. He wanted so badly to sink back into the Detective Prince, flashing a smile and waving away his issues like they were as trivial as workplace stress, but it was too late to do that. Akira was staring directly into the hollow, desolate eyes of Goro Akechi, the child who once lost his mother, who was thrown away by his father like he was yesterday’s trash, and who was about to be abandoned again, this time by the only person in his life who managed to grab even a single glance at Goro Akechi.

The only one of two people, Goro’s brain corrected. Joker had stared Crow right in the eyes in the moment where he was so unapologetically Akechi, heaving with laughs as he skewered a row of shadows with his sword. He thought back to the look in Joker’s eyes as he pinned Crow to the wall, nothing but the sound of their panting echoing through Mementos. In that moment, Joker had accepted Crow wholly, but he couldn’t be sure that Akira would do the same.

He felt himself begin to retreat into his head, and in a panic, the worn, overused switch in his brain was once again pressed, his Detective Prince smile flickering on his face. “Ah, work has just been very stressful lately. Investigating the mental shutdown cases is proving to be quite the task— I’m honestly starting to believe that they’re caused by workplace stress, because I can feel my brain start to shut down.”

Something in Akira’s eyes looked disappointed. He grabbed a whisk off the counter and held it in front of his face like a microphone. “Oh, Mr. Detective Prince-san, you have such a splendid sense of humor! Do you have any recommendations for our studio audience,” he gestured towards Morgana, “on how you like to unwind after a long day of work?” He pointed the whisk towards Goro’s mouth.

Goro gave a light laugh. “Mr. Detective Prince-san is a bit of a redundant nickname, wouldn’t you say?”

Akira nodded. “Hmm… Yes, I’m inclined to agree.” He brought the whisk back to his mouth. “We got an anonymous tip from a fan that said you enjoy drinking Leblanc coffee after work. Would you like to comment on this?”

“I-I suppose—”

Akira cut Goro off before he even had a chance to respond. “Well, lucky for you, we are doing a giveaway for one free cup of coffee, courtesy of Leblanc, and you’re the winner!” He poured a cup of coffee identical to the one in Goro’s hand and slid it next to him.

Goro simply looked at Akira with his same closed-eyes smile. “Oh, thank you for the kind offer.”

Akira’s grin fell off his face. “Man, it’s really hard to get a genuine laugh out of you.”

The only person in Goro’s life who seemed to have a worse savior complex than Joker was Akira.

Goro didn’t seem to have the practicality to tell Akira to stop, or to simply cease seeing him altogether out of pure irritation from being caught in the fire of Akira’s need to help him. This most definitely was not because Goro had taken quite the liking to Akira.

Goro was more sensible than that.

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

Akira couldn’t stand the strange itch in his brain.

He and Crow had only met up a handful of times, yet there was a strange feeling telling Akira that he and Crow were closer, like they’ve known each other for longer than they truly have. Akira has always been good at meeting new people, but there was something about Crow that made small talk completely unnecessary, because he felt like he’d already been through that part of the relationship and could just talk to him normally. In reality, the closest he’s had to small talk was helping Crow brainstorm a nickname, and things have been moving at a breakneck pace since then.

“Maaan, can’t you just, like, describe what Crow looks like, and then we could just look around at people on the streets that fit the description?” Ryuji was squatting on the floor next to Akira, taking large swigs of soda as he people-watched the crowds of Shibuya Walkway.

“Ryuji… That doesn’t really feel… efficient,” Makoto sighed from her spot on the other side of Akira.

“Well, couldja still describe what he looks like, at least?”

Akira scrunched his eyebrows. “I have this weird… brain fog, I guess. Like, when I think about him outside of the Metaverse, the details of his face aren’t really clear.”

“What color is his hair? That seems like a good place to start,” Ann asked.

Akira closed his eyes, the image of Crow’s hair, tangled and wild after a fight appearing clearly in his head. The fierce look in his eyes, the beads of sweat dripping off his forehead. He couldn’t pick out his hair color, or his eye color, or the sound of his voice. “He’s like…” the strange sensation of cotton filled Akira’s mouth, “uhm… deranged.”

“Easy peasy!” Ryuji grinned. “We’ll just search around for deranged-lookin’ people, and once we find one, BAM— We’ve got our guy!”

“Morgana, you’ve been going to Mementos with Akira too, right? Would you have an easier time describing him for us?” Makoto peeked into Akira’s bag.

Morgana popped his head out. “It’s so dark down in Mementos, I can’t make out any features from where I’m watching Joker and Crow.” He propped his paws onto Akira’s shoulder. “But what I did see, was Joker pinning—”

Akira shoved Morgana back into his bag. “I think we’ve heard enough from you!” He took a quick glance at Ann, praying she didn’t hear enough to put the pieces together.

“What if you tried to photograph Crow?” Yusuke asked, his eyes trained on the sketchbook in his hands. The rough sound of granite on paper filled Akira's ears as Yusuke scribbled down another gesture drawing of a bystander from the walkway.

“I mean…” Akira thought for a moment, “like Morgana said, it’s pretty dark down there. I really don’t wanna know how Crow would react if the flash of my camera randomly went off in his face.” He leaned against the railing, sighing. “Plus, if I’m being honest, even if I had a photograph of Crow, I don’t think my weird brain fog would let me put the pieces together.”

“What is this brain fog, exactly? Do you think it’s caused by cognition?” Makoto had the same stern look on her face that she always made when she was deep in thought.

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Morgana’s muffled voice said from the depths of Akira’s bag.

“Names are rather important in the Metaverse. The Nav app requires a name to enter a palace and a name to locate a shadow in Mementos. It wouldn’t surprise me if the requirement of a name is what’s causing Akira’s confusion,” Yusuke said.

Makoto nodded her head. “So to figure out his identity, we need a name. That feels a bit redundant,” she sighed. “For now, we should focus on the plan you all came up with earlier. Using the popularity barriers in Mementos could at least narrow down our options.”

“Why don’t we all make lists of famous people in Tokyo for our next meetin’? We could compare ‘em and make a popularity ranking based on how many times the same person shows up on each of our lists,” Ryuji asked.

“Good idea Ryuji,” Makoto smiled. “Okay, so for our next meeting, make sure everybody has a list prepared. If we’re done strategizing about Crow, let’s move onto our infiltration plans for the day…”

“You can’t keep blackmailing me for sushi.” Akira had the strap of his bag in one hand, and a little to-go container filled with conveyor belt sushi in the other, walking along Shibuya Crossing towards the subway station.

“I did a good job in Kaneshiro’s palace today! I deserve something nice.” Morgana was beginning to sound like Kaneshiro, with how obsessed with blackmail he seemed to be getting. Maybe one day, his Persona would completely disappear, being replaced by a big palace with a sweeping ocean filled with the fattiest tuna, complete with a rose garden dedicated to Ann.

“Look, just because you found one embarrassing fact about me doesn’t mean you get to hold it for ransom while you drain my bank account with—” Akira was disrupted by a loud ping coming from his front pocket. He grabbed his phone, taking a look at the message that flashed on his lockscreen. “Hmm…" His eyes scanned the phone screen. "Akechi just invited us to his apartment. You up for it?”

Morgana wrinkled his nose. “Don’t get me wrong, I like Akechi, but that goo-goo eyes thing he’s been doing to you lately scares me.”

“Goo-goo eyes?” Akira laughed.

“You saw the way he was staring at you at Penguin Sniper the other day!” Morgana pressed his ears down.

Akira thought back to the way he felt Akechi’s eyes searing into him while they were playing billiards. He wasn’t sure if this was Akechi’s strange way of hitting on him, or if he was just really bad at being subtle. “Did you recognize that look ‘cause it’s the same look you get when we find a palace’s treasure?”

Morgana swatted Akira’s shoulder. “I do not make goo-goo eyes at the treasure!”

“Mhmm, sure,” Akira hummed. “Anyway, are you coming to Akechi’s place or not?”

“Sure, as long as Akechi promises to never make those eyes again. I don’t think I could add weekly therapy on top of all those Metaverse trips.”

Akechi’s apartment complex was in an area of Tokyo that Akira was completely unfamiliar with. It was nothing like the more homey-feeling streets of Yongen-Jaya, or the bright screens of Akihabara. It was a fairly nice area, leaving Akira to question just how much Akechi managed to make through his job while still being a high schooler.

Akechi had messaged Akira his address, but offered to meet him outside of the complex to escort him inside. He stood against a wall, brows furrowed as he typed away at his phone with a strange sense of aggression. Akira walked up to Akechi, giving a small whistle as he waited for the detective to notice him. Akechi only scrunched his brows harder.

“Akechi…” Akira waved his hand in front of his face. “Are you alive?”

Akechi gave one hard blink, before looking back at Akira wide eyes, face shrouded in red. “Oh, I’m sorry, Kurusu-kun! I got a bit too invested in a conversation.” He pocketed his phone.

“Were you responding to hate comments or something? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that mad before.”

“I was just messaging someone about work-related matters. Nothing to worry about,” Akechi smiled. “Let me escort you inside.”

The inside of Akechi’s apartment complex was very quiet, but not in the same way as Yongen-Jaya, with its close, cozy feel. Akira was used to having conversations with the customers of Leblanc, with talks about current events and new shops around the city. The people in this complex seemed more business-oriented, with no interest in small talk or acquaintances. They briskly walked through the hallways, entering their apartments and immediately shutting the door behind them. Akira couldn’t say he blamed them, exactly, because from the way they dressed, they seemed to have the most boring jobs imaginable. He was sure that he would do the exact same thing after a day of mind numbing work.

“We’re here,” Akechi announced. Sixth floor, first door to the left. He fished his keys from his pocket, playing with the lock for a moment and then opening the door. He stepped to the side. “After you.”

Akira took a few steps inside. Akechi’s apartment was surprisingly small. The main area consisted of a couch and a TV— a very nice TV, at that— with a miniature kitchen that was separated from the living space with an island. There was a bathroom next to the entrance, and a bedroom with the door noticeably slid shut. By the window, there was a ledge that was slightly elevated from the floor, with a few pillows neatly placed in the area, around a low table. Everything looked very untouched, like Akira was staring at an online listing for a new apartment, or a real estate magazine catalog.

“Make yourself at home.” Akechi gestured towards the couch.

Akira hesitated to even sit on the sofa, as if he was desecrating a museum exhibit. The second he made contact with the cushion, he expected to hear a security guard barking commands at him to leave because he was destroying the artifacts. Akechi was fidgeting with his VHS player, the stack of tapes placed next to him. They seemed to be the only sign that someone actually lived here.

“I wish I had a CRT TV,” Akechi sighed as he fed the tape into the player. “I had to buy an RCA to HDMI converter for these cables.” He picked up a bundle of limp wires, plugging them into the converter.

“So you’re jealous of my dusty TV?” Akira asked.

“Jealous isn’t the right word. I definitely prefer my TV over yours, but yours does have its advantages when it comes to watching old tapes.”

Akira ignored the insult to his attic decor, deciding to give Morgana his attention instead. Morgana’s eyes darted around the apartment before settling on Akira.

“Can you break out that sushi? I’m hungry,” Morgana complained.

Akechi turned around, his mouth forming a smile the second his eyes laid on Morgana. “Ah, I didn’t know you were bringing Morgana! I would’ve bought snacks for him.” He walked over to the couch, taking a seat next to Akira and giving Morgana a soft scratch on the head. “My apologies for being such a poor host.”

“You hear that, Akira? Someone here bothers to feed me,” Morgana teased.

“Morgana, if you don’t mind, I’ll have to ask you to be a bit quiet today. My apartment building doesn’t allow pets,” Akechi pouted.

“A pet? I’ll have you know—”

Morgana was interrupted by a roll of sushi being shoved in his face by Akira. “So… Akechi… If you wanted to get snacks for Morgana, does that imply that you bought snacks for me?” He batted his eyelashes and mimicked Akechi’s sickeningly sweet smile.

Akechi thought for a moment, as if the idea of feeding Akira had not even occurred to him. “I have snacks for people, yes.” Spoken like a true lawyer. Akechi went over to his kitchen cabinet, emptying out a few boxes— crackers, pre-workout powder, and trail mix.

Akira adjusted his glasses to make sure he was seeing things correctly, despite his glasses very much not being prescription. “That trail mix doesn’t even have candy in it! And you picked all the nuts out of it!”

“I’m overdue for a trip to the market. I only have snacks that I bring on my daily cycling trips.” Akechi poured a small bowl of crackers for himself.

Akira thanked Igor himself that he decided to make a trip to the Metaverse today, because his bag was filled to the brim with snacks. He grabbed his bag, emptying it onto the couch and showering Morgana in enough processed sugar to fill his entire mouth with cavities. Akechi curiously lingered over to the couch, inspecting the snacks with a hand to his chin.

“I’m impressed with your ability to fit this much food in your bag.” Akechi picked up a baggie of melon pan, bringing it to his face and squinting at it. “Where did you get this? I don’t know of any bakeries in Tokyo that sell melon pan.”

“Oh, the bakery over in Shibuya sells it. I go there all the time. It’s seasonal, though, so they only sell it in the summer.” Akira sifted through the snack pile, grabbing a soda.

“Interesting.” Akechi brought the pastry over to his side of the couch. As soon as he sat down, Morgana crawled onto his lap.

“Traitor,” Akira mumbled.

The episode started, and Akira watched as Akechi picked away at the driest looking crackers he’s seen in his life. Akechi’s eyes did not break away from the screen once. This episode was particularly Black Condor-heavy, and the face that Akechi made every time he showed up on screen was identical to the look of pure idolization that some of his own fans made when they saw Akechi on TV.

Morgana purred from Akechi’s lap. “Akechi has the goo-goo eyes expression again.”

Akira furrowed his brow. “That is not the face he makes when he’s looking at me.”

“No, it’s not, but it’s still a brand of goo-goo eyes. This one is more like…” Morgana whipped his tail around, “hero-worship.”

Akechi drifted his hand towards Morgana’s head, scratching behind his ear. “Did you say something, Akira?” His eyes didn’t break away from the screen.

“Morgana said you’re making goo-goo eyes at Black Condor.”

“What?” Akechi’s head shot towards Akira, his face so red that it rivaled Red Hawk’s mask.

Akira pursed his lips. “Y’know, I kinda see it.” As if he was suddenly possessed by the spirit of Ann, he said, “Do you have a crush on him?” He waggled his eyebrows, grinning.

Akira didn’t think it was possible, but somehow Akechi’s face turned an even deeper red. “That’s absurd,” he blurted out.

“Morgana, look at his face! He totally does!”

Akechi’s mouth formed a firm line, the red creeping even further up his face.

“Look, I’m just saying, my friend is an artist, and if you want—”

“No.”

“For the cheap price of one meal and a few subway rides—”

“No.”

Akira huffed. “I just think it’s important to support broke artists.”

Akechi looked like he wanted to stitch a zipper to Akira’s mouth and force it shut forever. “I am not commissioning your friend to draw art of me and Black Condor together.”

“If you asked nicely, you could probably talk him into designing you a body pillow.”

Akechi’s eye twitched. “This conversation is over.”

“Your loss.”

Akechi simply pretended that Akira did not exist. He lived in a blissful world where his apartment complex allowed pets and Morgana was his totally-not-talking cat. The Phantom Thieves were nothing more than a rumor, and his job was far easier without the added stress of trying to piece together what a Metaverse was and attempting to wrap his head around the existence of cognitive selves.

“See, this is why Black Condor left you for Red Hawk,” Akira pouted.

“Hm. I wouldn’t be opposed to that.”

Akira’s mind flashed back to when Akechi said his laptop contained confidential information. He recoiled at the thought. “Aren’t they supposed to be rivals?”

Akechi hummed. “It’s a lot more complex than that.”

Akira let out a huff at Akechi’s implication that he didn’t understand the nuances of Red Hawk and Black Condor’s relationship, crossing his arms and sinking his back into the couch. He glanced out the window. The sky was completely dark now, the only source of light in the apartment being the flashy colors of the TV. His eyes darted down to the low table next to the window, surrounded by pillows that looked like they were fresh from the store.

Akira gestured towards the table. “It’s the perfect size to fit a chessboard.”

Akechi glanced over. “I suppose you’re right. We should play some time.”

“What about shogi?” Akira grinned.

Akechi gave a polite smile. “I’ll have to decline the offer for a match of shogi. I’m a bit… traumatized from the last time I played a round.”

Akira twisted himself from his prison wedged between two couch cushions, getting up to walk over to the table. He sat on one of the pillows and looked back at Akechi expectantly. Akechi let out a small laugh and followed him to the cushion across, Morgana trailing behind and curling up underneath the table.

The view outside of Akechi’s window was much different from Akira’s little attic, with the bright lights of the neighboring buildings shining so vividly that the streets below them were painted in a warm yellow light, nothing obscured in shadows like the alleyways of Yongen-Jaya. Akira didn’t understand how Akechi managed to rest at all, because the bustling streets around them, the people rushing down the sidewalks, small enough to be specks from this high up, made it impossible for Akira to shake that feeling of alertness off of him.

His eyes darted over to Akechi, who was making a quick tap tap tap noise as he drummed his fingers against the table. His face was bathed in a colorful light from the TV, his hair slightly messier than usual from a full day of work. Akira’s eyes moved towards Akechi’s leather gloves, then trailed up his shirt, finally resting on the knot of his tie. He leaned over, yanking it loose and watching the way it fell limply across his shoulders. Akechi furrowed his brow.

“You dress so formally all the time. Even in your own apartment,” said Akira.

“Well, it’s not like I’d walk around in my pajamas around you,” Akechi replied.

Akira could think of plenty of times his friends had seen him in his pajamas, the time Yusuke spent the night in his room being the first. Maybe Akechi was simply embarrassed because he owned pajama pants with cats patterned on them, or he was the type to sleep naked— Akira suppressed the thought before the visuals even had the chance to manifest in his head.

“I just don’t get how you manage to relax like this,” Akira huffed, resting his head in his hand. He watched a car drive along the road below them.

Akechi hummed to himself. “I go to Leblanc when I want to relax.”

He continued to drum on the table while Akira gazed out the window, watching as a duo of cats jumped up onto a stone wall and curled up against each other, slowly drifting to sleep. He felt Akechi’s eyes on him, though it wasn’t a piercing gaze like the looks Crow would give him as he watched him fight shadows, fierce and calculating. His mind wandered back to the conversation that he and Morgana had in Shibuya earlier in the evening.

Akechi’s fingers danced across the table even faster. “Kurusu-kun.” His eyes darted away.

Akira looked towards Akechi. A red hue slowly creeped up Akechi’s face.

“I’ve been meaning to ask this for a while… and I know I may have alluded to it a few times, but… would you like to, maybe…” Akechi looked like he was going to pass out before he managed to finish his sentence, taking a deep inhale, “…arm wrestle with me?” His expression was vivid but unreadable.

Akira scrunched his brows together slightly.

“I know you said you wanted to play chess, but I don’t exactly own a chessboard, and—”

Akira leaned in, striking the table with his elbow and holding his hand out towards Akechi. Akechi accepted his hand, intertwining his fingers with Akira’s. His grip was far more gentle than Akira had expected it to be.

Akira grinned. “Bring it on.”

Akechi was far stronger than he looked, being able to hold up a fair challenge against Akira despite Akira’s regular visits to the Metaverse. His face was still hot, and the heat radiated from his hands so strongly that Akira could feel it through his gloves. Their arms stayed at an equal position for quite a few minutes, practically standing at 90 degree angles. Akira slowly pushed Akechi’s arm downwards, his own arm shaking as Akechi’s dipped just low enough that he could barely brush his knuckles against the table. Akechi, who was using his right hand, Akira noted, managed to recover, bringing their arms back to the starting position. They struggled against each other, Akira’s arm sinking lower and lower until Akechi finished him off with a final slam.

Akechi gave a polite laugh. “I did mention before that I go bouldering quite often.” He did not release Akira’s hand, instead keeping their fingers intertwined. “Since I also won our last game of billiards, I believe this makes us even.”

“Hm…” Akira pursed his lips in thought. Before their billiards game, he managed to beat Akechi two times at darts, his little winning streak being just enough to give him the upper hand over Akechi. “That sounds right. Unless you want to count that time I raced you to the subway.”

Akechi hummed. “Well, if you’d like to count that, then I’d be inclined to mention that I managed to solve that one crossword answer you were struggling with, making us even again.”

Akira pouted, attempting to cross his arms, only to be stopped by Akechi’s grip that still sat around his hand. Akechi seemed to notice the sudden movement underneath his fingers, because his face turned the same red color as before and he quickly released Akira’s hand from where it was being held hostage beneath his. With his newly-freed hand, Akechi went back to drumming against the table while looking out the window, seemingly wanting to look anywhere except at Akira’s face.

Akira glared at the row of snacks lined up on Akechi’s counter, barely appetizing to even a person on the strictest of diets, and then down to the cushion he sat on, which was in pristine condition, the paper tag wedging into his thigh.

“Do you ever have people over?” Akira asked.

Akechi’s eyes widened slightly at the question, only to be immediately smoothed over. “Mm… not really. You’re the first person I’ve ever invited here.”

Akira thought back to Akechi’s insistence that he only spent his time in meaningful ways, wondering if that extended to the relationships in his life, choosing to only offer invites to those that he felt he had a meaningful connection with. He wanted so badly to tear the tag off of the cushions, raid Akechi’s snack cabinet until he was forced to restock it with all of Akira’s favorite foods, leave traces of cat fur all over his couch, maybe even make him laugh loud enough that he’d get a noise complaint from the neighbors.

But instead, he was sitting on the firmest cushion of his life, gazing at a nearly empty box of salted crackers that sat next to a bag of trail mix with all the nuts picked out. A mere invader in the pristine diorama that surrounded him.

His eyes wandered to the low table, fixing on the slight scratch in the wood that was etched in the spot where Akechi slammed Akira’s hand. He looked over at Akechi, who was fidgeting with the undone tie that dangled from his neck, the messy strands of his hair illuminated in the TV’s light.

Maybe, just maybe, Akechi was just as out of place in this apartment as Akira was.

Shibuya Station was usually rather empty at this time despite its normal bustling nature, a few people wandering the nearly empty corridors of the station. Morgana was fast asleep in Akira’s bag as Akira strolled through the walkway towards the transfer line.

Akechi usually escorted Akira to the station after their nights together, though tonight, he seemed rather hasty to get Akira out of his apartment, practically pushing him out and shutting the door behind him. Akira swore he heard a strange thump, thump, thump, coming from the inside of the apartment, like the sound of someone banging their head against the wall repeatedly.

As Akira turned past a corner, his eyes were met with a familiar blue blob at the end of the walkway. It was Yusuke, who seemed to be among tonight’s set of subway stragglers, staring rather intensely at the only other person who was in the walkway with them.

Akira made his small trek towards Yusuke, greeting him with a bit of a confused squint. “What are you doing here so late?” He gestured at the poor stranger who seemed to be the subject of Yusuke’s latest idea.

“I’m observing the individuals of Shibuya. I’m in need of inspiration for Kaneshiro’s calling card.” Yusuke did not break eye contact with the stranger.

“Why’d you come here at like, the one time of day that the station is practically empty?”

Yusuke finally looked Akira in the eyes. “I don’t have enough money to pay the subway fare. I’ve been standing here since we left the palace.”

Akira’s eyes drifted down towards Yusuke’s hand, where he was holding a realistic wall mount of a swordfish. He grabbed his wallet from his pocket, ready to hand Yusuke a few bills, but Yusuke took a step very close to him. Akira glanced up, taking a step back, only for Yusuke to take another step closer. “Um… what are you doing?” Akira asked.

“I’m following you to Leblanc.”

Akira, lacking the strength to fend Yusuke off, found himself back at Leblanc, Yusuke sitting in the booth closest to the TV as Akira served him a large plate of curry— the same kind of curry Sojiro served him the last time he spent the night at Leblanc, because he remembered how much Yusuke seemed to like it.

Yusuke gasped. “What a kind gesture… I cannot express my gratitude enough.”

Akira shuffled through the shelf of books on the counter, pulling a few blank sheets of paper that were wedged between a book about Captain Kidd and a guidebook on Tokyo shrines. He brought them over the booth, handing one of the sheets to Yusuke. “You wanna work on those lists Ryuji was talking about?”

Yusuke happily accepted the sheet, immediately pulling a pencil from his pocket and jotting down names. Akira turned towards Morgana, who was sitting in the booth next to him. “Any names come to mind?”

“Hmm..” Morgana’s tail brushed against the table as it whirled around in thought. “Who’s that politician you see all the time?”

“Oh, Yoshida? Isn’t he a bit… old?” Akira asked. One of Crow’s only discernible features among the brain fog was his age.

“It’s worth writing down, just in case. I mean, we really don’t know the extent that Metaverse disguises work— what if it’s capable of de-aging people?”

Akira nodded. “Right, right.” He wrote the name down, thinking about how any preexisting attraction to Crow would immediately dissipate if he were revealed to be Yoshida.

Akira and Morgana bounced a few names back and forth to each other, until the one dreaded name came up— the first name that came to mind, actually, though he felt a bit weird writing it down. He hesitated for a moment before scribbling the name Goro Akechi.

Akira’s eyes shifted towards Yusuke’s list, which was surprisingly long. Next to the names sat doodles of Akira’s coffee cup, a scribble of Morgana’s paw and the rough outline of Akira’s concentrated face. Akira, a bit bored with his list, reached for another sheet of paper.

“Morgana, hold still— I’m gonna draw you.” His pencil traced the outline of a circle, adding a few guidelines. He penned in Morgana’s eyes, whiskers, and two triangles for the ears.

Morgana leaned in, his tail whipping around curiously. “Can I see?”

Akira nudged him back into position. “No moving! You’re my nude model.”

“Nude?” Morgana asked. “I’m wearing my collar!”

Yusuke’s head perked up from the banter, staring directly at the drawing in front of Akira. He swooped in, grabbing it and inspecting it with wide eyes. “Akira… I had no idea you were an artist!” He gasped.

Akira rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “Haha, I used to draw in my spare time sometimes. It was mostly just cartoons, though.”

Yusuke’s eyes were rapidly scanning the drawing. “Yes, I can see the influence. Your depiction of Morgana is very stylized.”

“Hmm… actually…” Akira leaned in, taking another glance at the drawing. “Do you think you could help me with the fur?”

Yusuke nodded, placing the drawing back on the table. He started blocking in shades of black with his pencil. “Because your drawing is heavily stylized, you shouldn’t render the fur in such a detailed fashion.” He pointed towards the traces of detailed fur that Akira failed to fully erase during his first attempt at finishing his drawing. “Focus on simplifying the texture.”

Akira nodded along, watching as Yusuke filled in the rest of the fur, deep in focus. His eyes were flickering between the paper and Morgana, who could easily be mistaken for a taxidermied cat with how still he was posing for Yusuke. With a few more flicks of his wrist, he handed the drawing back to Akira.

“It’s customary that the artist signs their work,” Yusuke said.

Akira penned his name at the bottom of the drawing and then handed it back to Yusuke. “You should sign it, too. We worked together, after all.”

Yusuke let out a gasp, eyes rapidly scanning over the drawing again. “A collaboration? You’re right… This piece is the result of the amalgamation of two artistic minds.” He signed his name at the bottom, his signature looking like a work of art in itself. Akira wondered if Yusuke ever practiced Japanese calligraphy, or if he was simply a natural at it.

Morgana jumped. “Ooh, I wanna sign it too! Do you have any ink?”

Yusuke observed Morgana through the frame of his fingers. “I’ve never heard of a model signing the artist’s work… What an interesting deviation from traditional artistic practices!” He searched through his bag and pulled out a small bottle of ink, along with a brush. He gently brushed the bottom of Morgana’s paw and helped him stamp the drawing, right under his own name.

“I think we did a pretty good job,” Akira grinned.

“We make an excellent team,” Yusuke smiled. “If you don’t mind me asking, I would love to collaborate with you again some time.”

Akira pursed his lips for a moment, before the most perfect idea for a masterpiece entered his mind. “Actually, if you’re not tired,” Akira ignored the way the clock little hand graced over the number two, “I have an idea for a drawing we could start right now.”

Yusuke nodded. “Yes, tell me. My hands are overwhelmed with the urge to draw.”

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Sometimes, when Goro was at his worst, he’d think about Shido. It was easy, after all, to indulge his mind in fantasies about what a living hell Shido’s life would become in a mere few months. Shido’s enemies were, at the very least, offered mercy through their deaths by Goro’s hand, but Goro was not willing to give that same mercy to Shido.

Just a few more months, he’d tell himself. A few more months raiding palaces, and a few more months slaying the shadows of every figure Shido appeared to have a problem with. His mind never seemed to wonder what his own life would be like after these few months, but that didn’t matter right now, because the TV in Shido’s office was broadcasting the news of Junya Kaneshiro’s arrest, and it was beginning to dawn on Goro how difficult the Phantom Thieves were going to make things for him.

Shido seemed to agree with him, because his hands were gripping the TV remote so tightly that his knuckles were white. However, he did not yell. Instead, he glanced towards Goro with a stone cold look in his eyes. “I told the IT company president of your observation from the other day.”

“Ah, the message I sent you about anonymity in the Metaverse? What did he say?” asked Goro.

“We’re working on a plan. For now, I need you to survey another palace.”

Goro’s mind latched to the words ‘I need you,’ which so clearly left Shido’s mouth and were directly in reference to Goro. “I can do so right now. My evening is free.”

“I’m glad that I can depend on you.”

Shido’s words seemed to be the only thing in Crow’s head as he entered the alien-looking lobby of this new palace. The floors were made of a dark gray tile, surrounded by purple pillars that were bathed in a strange teal light. The entire palace— a spaceport, it appeared to be— felt as if it had been ripped from Crow’s innermost childhood fantasies, the perfect amalgamation of all of his favorite sci-fi movies.

Shido’s dependence on him, combined with the fact that he was finally able to wear his other Metaverse outfit, gave Crow such a surge of energy, like he was simply unstoppable, shadows melting away with the mere shot of a gun or the slash of his gauntlets. He cackled as he hacked away at a mass of black ooze, mind overwhelmed with how much Shido needed him, how important he was and how irreplaceable his powers were. His heart was pounding in his ears as he thrusted his serrated sword into the ooze, hurling with a sick laugh as it bursted into nothing but mere dust.

He bolted down the next wing of the palace, eyes fixing on the nearest shadow. Before he had a chance to lunge at it, a strange voice came from down the hall. Crow hastily ducked at the nearest corner, peering his head around carefully to locate the source of the noise.

Kunikazu Okumura— or at least his shadow— was talking to a group of robots, his voice booming with authority as he barked commands at the handful of towering green robots in the back of the group.

Before Crow could react, the sudden sensation of ice jolted up his spine, piercing through his armor and into his skin like a sharp blade. He whipped his head around, only to be met face to face with a shadow donning large horns, its deep purple skin looking almost as if it were bruised, with a thin tail that coiled up its back like a snake. It looked to be sitting on a floating toilet of all things, though the juvenile humor didn’t make the ambush any less fazing.

Crow recognized the shadow instantly— he’s seen it in other palaces— though he didn’t dare to summon Loki, knowing far too well that the shadow repelled curse magic.

“Robin Hood!” Crow called out. “Kouga!”

The shadow was shrouded in a blinding light, Crow reaching for his pistol as it let out a deep groan. When he whipped the gun from his pocket, it fell to the ground with a clatter, Crow wincing in pain as he was disarmed with a blunt blow to his hand. One of Okumura’s green robots was towering over him, arm raised in the position to strike again, only to be stopped by the shout of a command. The robot stepped aside, and Shadow Okumura slowly drifted over in a floating chair that looked like it was from the pages of a manga. His skin was a vivid teal color, body concealed in a black space suit that made him almost completely unrecognizable if it weren’t for how distinct of a face he had.

His yellow eyes pierced into Crow’s. “Why did Shido send you here?”

It was no use negotiating with these cognitive beings— it had no effect on the real world. No matter what answer Crow gave, he was fully aware that Okumura would respond by commanding his robots to assault him, so Crow did what he believed to be the only sensible action— he bolted away. He was far faster than Okumura’s bulky robots, and the combination of speed and stealth was able to get him far enough to reach an automatic door, which secured tightly behind him with a mechanical hum.

Crow collapsed against the door, slowly sliding his back against the smooth metal until he sat on the floor with a thud. He reached into his pockets, grabbing a bottle of water and a small baggie of trail mix— which was essentially a bag of raisins with an almond or two tossed in— taking off his mask and practically inhaling the contents of the bottle.

He wasn’t impressed with the progress from today. While he made a bit of a dent in the palace, he knew full well that he was capable of more. Whatever Shido was planning— he needed Crow to have Okumura’s palace memorized like the back of his hand. Crow was essential.

Crow was promptly pulled from his thoughts by a strange robotic voice. He jolted up, hand moving towards his gun.

PERFORMING BIOMETRIC AUTHENTICATION.

AUTHENTICATING…

AUTHENTICATING…

AUTHENTICATING…

AUTHORIZATION ERROR: ACCESS DENIED.

Crow took a step closer to the scanner, only for it to repeat the same ruling. His eyes surveyed the door carefully.

He had already been through this door. It was near the very entrance of the palace. In fact— it wasn’t even a door previously, now that he thought about it. No, this door was new, and likely put in place to stop Shido from gathering any further intel from this palace.

Crow swore under his breath, giving the door a hard kick. He had to get through it somehow, but he didn’t think there would be any real-world equivalent to this door that could be unlocked, because the door has only existed for a mere few minutes, and he couldn’t drill through the wall because that simply wasn’t how the Metaverse worked. He felt a heavy sense of dread sink to the bottom of his stomach.

He would have to consult Shido about it.

The identity of the leader of the Phantom Thieves still didn’t seem like it was necessary information based on what little scraps of Shido’s plan that Goro had been told so far, but the question gnawed at his brain so frequently that he almost felt like he was opening his own private investigation in hopes of gaining his own peace of mind.

There were very few things that Goro knew about Joker's true identity. For one, he was around Goro’s age. His incessant need to flirt with him only seemed to confirm this in Goro’s mind. He was also a frequent shopper at the bakery in Shibuya based on the pile of snacks he carried around with him, along with Akira’s account of what shops in Tokyo sold melon pan.

He wasn’t stupid enough to convince himself of the fact that standing outside of the bakery every day in hopes that maybe he would run into a few boys his age, and maybe one of them would be Joker, would be a viable idea. He was simply stopping here for the thrill of it— it was after school, meaning the subway station would be filled with high schoolers commuting home, many of which would be stopping at the bakery. One of them could be Joker, and Goro would be completely oblivious to it. Likewise, Joker would be equally oblivious that he was standing so close to Crow. It was a thought that made his adrenaline rush.

Goro’s eyes scanned the long line in front of the bakery. Many of the customers were his age, though a good portion of them were girls. He counted five high school-aged boys, though if he was being honest, most of them lacked Joker’s charisma. At least, that's what Goro concluded based on the way they carried themselves. Solely by the way Joker stood, with the slight sway of his hips and the grin that always danced on his face, he managed to steal every scene he was in. It was nauseating, really.

A sudden hand reached for Goro’s shoulder, followed by a shocked, “Akechi? Is that you?”

Goro ignored the voice in his head that relayed a string of complaints about how much he despised when his fans touched him. He plastered on a smile, giving a sweet laugh. “Ah, are you a fan of m—” His smile immediately toned down about fifty notches the second he turned around. “Oh, it’s just you. Hello, Kurusu-kun.”

Akira gave a small wave. “Did I manage to get you hooked on this bakery? I swear, I keep telling myself that I’m not gonna stop here on my way home, but I always do.”

Goro could see himself easily getting addicted to visiting this bakery, but not for the reason Akira assumed. The high he felt at the fact that he could run into Joker at any moment was something that Goro wasn’t sure he would ever get used to, nor did he want to.

“Mm, this is my first time visiting in a while, actually. I was hoping to restock the snacks in my apartment,” said Goro.

“Oh, but you liked the melon pan enough to come all the way to the bakery for more? I’m touched.” Akira wiped a fake tear from his eye.

Goro hated how sentimental he’s become, because he would be lying if he said that he wasn’t intending to buy a few pastries with the intent of inviting Akira over again, since he’s noticed how much of a liking Akira seemed to have for them. He didn’t want to embarrass himself again by offering a nearly-empty snack cabinet to a guest, though he didn’t think it was even close to possible to once again reach the heights of embarrassment he felt that night after that stunt he attempted to pull towards the end of Akira’s visit. Just the thought of what he did made him want to walk away mid conversation, enter the nearest subway, and start a new life for himself wherever the train decided to take him. Alternatively, he could locate the demented shadow that existed in his brain, which seemed to be responsible for all these thoughts Goro was having, and give himself a mental shutdown to prevent himself from acting like that again.

Before Goro had a chance to respond, he heard the familiar cry of, “Oh my god! Is that Goro Akechi?”

One of the girls on the line in front of the bakery was tapping her friend on the shoulder rapidly, pointing fingers at Goro like he was a fancy new toy she spotted in the window of a store.

Goro immediately beamed a toothy smile at them and gave a polite wave. “Oh, hello! I can assume you’re fans of mine?”

One of the girls whipped her phone out, snapping pictures of Goro while the other girl tugged on her friend’s sleeve, shaking so rapidly with excitement that she was practically dancing. Goro simply smiled like he was a doll on display, being cautious to avoid moving too quickly to not ruin any of the photos they were taking.

“It will never not creep me out how fast you can turn on that whole Detective Prince thing,” Akira muttered, only loud enough for Goro to hear.

“I’m not quite sure what you mean by that,” Goro replied. His smile was nauseating.

Akira pouted, before shuffling through his bag and seizing a pencil. He brought it to his face like a microphone. “Good to see you again, Detective Prince-san. I see you’re currently standing outside of a bakery. Would you care to explain, in excruciating detail, your routine for picking out pastries? Preferably in five hundred words or more.”

Goro gave an awkward laugh. “Ah, are we really doing this again?”

“Well, this is what it feels like when I have a conversation with the Detective Prince,” Akira said.

Goro once again found himself fantasizing what it would be like to simply leave and never return. He wasn’t sure he even had a reply for Akira. Akira was the only person he’d ever met who could manage to leave him completely speechless at times.

It truly did not make sense to Goro. The Detective Prince persona was the reason people seemed to want him around: the charisma, the looks, the intelligence; a persona specifically manufactured to grab people’s hearts, yet Akira seemed insistent on wanting nothing to do with it.

Akira didn’t seem to care if Goro responded or not, because he immediately started shuffling through his bag, weeding through scrap papers. “I’ve gotta go, but before I leave, I have something to give you.”

Goro watched as Akira organized through a stack of crinkly papers, eyes scanning each page rapidly: a page of class notes, an old flier about a class field trip, a paper containing nothing but careless scribbles. He stopped at a page that was far thicker and toothier than the others. “For you,” he said, handing it to Goro.

Goro examined the paper carefully. In a thick, black ink was a drawing of Red Hawk and Black Condor, both of which were striking a dramatic action pose. Goro felt an ugly, childish smile begin to play at his lips. “Oh, you actually got your friend to—?”

Akira pointed to the signature at the bottom of the page. “I helped!”

Goro’s eyes darted towards Akira’s finger, which was pointing at two signatures. The name Yusuke Kitagawa, written in rapid strokes of kanji, immediately struck an interest in Goro. Madarame’s former pupil. Goro was very familiar with the case against Madarame, having directly investigated it as part of the psychotic breakdowns case. The artist was known for having many foster children, and Yusuke being one of them meant that his foster parent was recently ripped away from him following Madarame’s arrest. A lifetime being exploited by your own father, only to be without a home or family at sixteen years old.

“I didn’t know you were an artist,” Goro said, pushing the thoughts of foster care and orphans out of his brain before he began to spiral.

“Apparently I am now,” Akira laughed. He fidgeted with the stack of papers in his hand, humming along with the crinkling noise they made.

Curiously, Goro’s eyes shifted towards the paper at the front of the stack. A list of names, most of which he recognized, with his own name at the very bottom. He raised an eyebrow. “You have a very interesting list over there.”

Akira’s head immediately shot down. “Oh, this thing? It’s for class. We have to write a paper on a notable person from Tokyo.”

Goro let out a breathy laugh. “I couldn’t help but notice that my name is written down. Were you considering writing a paper about me?”

“Hm, I guess I’d have a pretty easy time if I did. Do you think I’d get bonus points for including your address?” Akira grinned.

“Would you like me to provide my bank information too?”

“If you don’t mind.”

Goro suppressed a hideous snort. “Well, I guess it could serve as my gratitudes for the drawing.” He slipped the paper into his briefcase, being especially careful to make sure it didn’t bend. “I know you mentioned needing to leave, but it was nice running into you. Thank you.”

“Funny coming from the guy who was totally insisting that I shouldn’t give you a drawing,” Akira laughed. “I’ll catch you around!”

Goro waited until Akira was out of sight before making a turn towards the entrance of Shibuya Station, pulling out his phone and opening the Nav. A strangely familiar sense overcame him, like his consciousness was drifting through the bottom of the ocean, water filling his senses with an immense pressure. When he opened his eyes, the dull, gloomy entrance of Mementos was standing in front of him, bathed in a dreary red light. Joker was sitting atop one of the turnstiles, kicking his feet and whistling to himself.

“Took you long enough!” Joker called out.

“My apologies for the tardiness. I got caught up in personal business,” Crow said, leaning on the turnstile next to him. “I can assume you’re actually up to train today, unlike last time?”

“Mhmm,” Joker hummed. “I was actually hoping we could go to a deeper area of Mementos than we’ve been training in. The shadows are getting a bit too weak for us, don’t you think?”

Crow smirked. “I’m glad to finally hear you say that.”

Crow truly wished he had brought his bike with him, or there was some kind of magical car that could take them deeper through Mementos, because trudging through the dark, twisted corridors of the subway station completely by foot was proving to be its own set of training in itself. He had come to Mementos a few times before meeting Joker, though it definitely wasn’t a frequent destination for him, as most of Shido’s targets had their own palaces. Mementos was too repetitive for Crow’s tastes. Palaces have brought him from a packed World’s Fair, filled with state-of-the-art architecture and lights that glittered over exhibitions dedicated to the achievements of the palace ruler, to a factory fashioned after a spaceport, filled with sentient robot employees who answered to an alien tycoon. Mementos was a mystery, but Shido found use in Crow as an assassin, not a researcher, and he did not have the time to study the true depths of Mementos on top of everything else he had going on in his life.

“A barrier?” Joker hissed at nearly 20 floors down.

A thin wall stood between them and the escalator down. It looked almost skin-like, with red wires resembling veins that twisted throughout the barrier, twitching like they were pumping life into the subway system.

Crow took a few steps forward, inspecting the barrier carefully. His eyes traced the veins, watching as they pulsated against the flesh of the wall. “This shouldn’t be an issue for us,” he said, pulling out his saber.

With one clean slash, the wall wilted away. Crow ignored how similar the cut of his saber felt to the tearing of flesh. He smirked when he sensed Joker’s eyes on him, who was inspecting his movements carefully.

“I’ll race you to the bottom of the escalators!” Joker shouted. Before Crow even had a chance to react, Joker had already flung himself over the escalators, slid down the railing and stood at the bottom of the next floor, staring back at Crow with a peace sign and a grin.

Crow huffed, making a bitter descent down the stairs. “I wasn’t given nearly enough time to prepare. I demand a rematch.”

“Sounds like something a loser would say.” Joker put his hand to his forehead, scanning the vast maze of tracks in front of him. This new segment of Mementos felt like Crow was looking at the world while his eyes were covered in a layer of goo, the halls of Mementos being engrossed in a putrid layer of green fog. “First one to make it to the exit wins.”

Crow adjusted his cape and then moved into a starting position. “Challenge accepted.”

On the count of three, Crow immediately bolted ahead of Joker, ignoring the faint blob of a shadow that could be seen from a distance. The sound of feet rapidly hitting the gravel drew closer and closer to Crow until Joker was dashing in the lead, his cloak whipping behind him. The shadow in the distance was now speeding towards Joker, towering over the Phantom Thief with its beaming, crystal-like eyes. Joker gave Crow a quick wave, as if he were saying ‘Watch this.’ His hand disappeared into his coat, pulling out what looked to be a grappling hook. Barely even taking a second to aim, he pulled the trigger, launching himself into the air like a bullet. He swung over the shadow, kicking the heel of his boot into its head and flinging himself into a clean flip, where he landed in a fashionable perch. He gave a quick toothy grin and then dashed towards the next shadow.

A fierce spark ignited in Crow. He longed for his gauntlets, thinking about how effortlessly he could pierce his claws into the next shadow to gain a lead. Joker was flashy, yes, but Crow could be ruthless, and the swift slaughter of shadows was exactly what allowed him to sweep through palaces so quickly. As the next shadow approached closer, Crow could make out a deep red flame that engulfed its body. Joker seemed to notice this, too, choosing to rely on stealth to avoid it at the expense of speed.

Crow felt his feet pick up pace. He gripped the handle of his sword with his left hand, brushing the sloppy strands of hair out of his face with his right. The shadow immediately noticed him, charging towards him with a deep growl. Just as Crow had planned. The red flame intensified with a heat so blazing that Crow could feel the gust of hot air in his face. From the corner of his eye, he could see that Joker had completely stopped moving, hand hastily grabbing for his gun. The shadow was right in front of Crow now, its heat crawling down his body, begging to ignite on his clothes. Just as they were about to collide, Crow made a sharp jerk to the right, his outstretched saber rupturing the mucilaginous skin of the shadow. The speed of the shadow’s charge, combined with Crow’s rapid dash, was fast enough to slash the saber straight through the shadow’s body, completely slicing its body into two before it erupted into a splatter of thick, oily grime. Crow did not flinch, nor did he slow down.

A few seconds passed before Crow heard the sound of Joker’s footsteps striking the ground again. Crow was rapidly approaching a fork in the road, making a quick turn to the left fork and bolting past another shadow. Joker’s footsteps were no longer audible. Luck would be the sole determiner of the race.

Crow quickly slowed down before he risked running into the door that stood in front of him. Behind this door sat the results of their race. If there was anything but an escalator behind it, Crow had no chance of winning; by the time he could catch up to Joker, Joker would certainly be at the finish line.

He gave the door a hard hit with the hilt of his sword, and it opened to a gloomy landing platform, a row of escalators lined in the back. He smirked to himself, walking over to the platform and leaning against the strange podium adjacent to the wall, topped with a glowing star. Joker seemed to be quite invested in these, going out of his way to examine it every time they came across one.

A few minutes later, the sound of heavy footsteps filled the room, and Joker bolted through the entrance, immediately crashing onto the platform and heaving with pants.

“Dead… end… hoard… of shadows…” he said between heaves.

Crow walked over to Joker, squatting beside him. “I believe that makes me the winner, yes?”

Joker took in a few more heavy pants. “We’re even now. Two to two.”

Crow raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t say it’s fair to count the first race. I wasn’t given any time to prepare.”

“I’m not counting it,” Joker said, still laying on the floor. “You won our first training competition, and then I beat you at shogi. I got to Mementos first today, and then you beat me in the race.”

Crow considered this carefully. “Yes. We’re even.”

Joker hoisted himself off the floor, taking a seat next to Crow. Both were still taking heavy breaths, Crow dabbing the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. Joker’s eyes were watching Crow meticulously, tracing over each strand of hair that stuck to his forehead, the shine of sweat on his skin, the way his lips quivered between breaths. He reached into his cloak, carefully pulling something out and offering it Crow.

“I found these by the dead end I was stuck at,” he said.

Crow’s gaze fell on the small bundle of flowers in Joker’s hand, petals of white and yellow that were wrapped together at the stem.

Joker’s hand reached towards Crow’s face, brushing a piece of hair behind his ear and slipping the flower stems alongside with it. “They look very pretty on you,” Joker said, his fingers drifting towards Crow’s cheek. He brushed the soft skin with gentle circles.

“What are you doing?” Crow asked. His voice lacked its usual venom, instead coming out as a small hush.

“Something I’ve been meaning to do for a while.” Joker’s face was hovering in front of Crow’s. Dangerously close. Close enough for their breaths to mingle, and close enough that Crow could feel the heat from Joker’s cheeks.

Crow didn’t understand the strange sense of yearning in his chest. The faint smell of coffee in Joker’s hair, and his mask that framed his eyes like glasses, and the grin that always plastered his face. The way Joker saw Crow as an equal.

Crow placed a firm hand on Joker’s chest. Joker immediately backed away.

“I’m sorry.” Crow’s voice was practically a whisper.

Joker’s breath hitched.

“It’s just that… there’s someone else.”

Joker’s eyes widened for a moment before his face softened. “Whoever it is… I just hope it’s someone who makes you happy.” His look was so genuine, so gentle and filled with care.

Crow didn’t think he had an answer to give Joker.

Shido had three closed files sitting atop his desk.

Goro was all too familiar with them. They were a death sentence; the very files that Shido would hand Goro after he declared a hit on someone. To Shido, they were the simple means to the end, roadblocks in his path to prime minister. To Goro, the inside of those files was the reason he was needed, the reason he would be able to ruin Shido’s worthless life, and the only reason he’s found to keep going.

Goro was seated in the same dreaded chair, body stiff as Shido opened the first file. A picture of Kunikazu Okumura was inside, paperclipped to a document detailing information about Okumura Foods, along with the data Goro recently collected from his palace.

“This will be one of the most complex jobs I’ve given you,” Shido said. “This is the culmination of everything we’ve been working towards.”

Goro’s mind immediately lunged towards the word ‘We.’ Him and Shido. Father and son. He wished it could’ve been sooner, far far sooner, under any circ*mstances besides these.

Shido’s hand hovered towards the second file. The folder looked brand new, unlike the worn files he usually presented Goro with, filled with pictures of years-long associates and some of the most corrupt and powerful people in Tokyo. He opened the folder carefully, exposing the Phantom Thieves' logo.

“Your next job will be to kill the leader of the Phantom Thieves.”

Shido was right.

This was the culmination of everything they’ve been working towards.

Which is why Goro was hunched over the sink, practically heaving, nothing but shallow breaths filling his lungs.

He wasn’t supposed to care about anything else. Nothing in his life mattered except making Shido just as miserable as Goro was. He was doing everything in his power to hold back the stinging in his eyes, the sharp burn in his throat, the deep feeling in his stomach like his organs were being carved inside out.

He hated Joker, he told himself. Joker did nothing but fill his life with dread, serve as an obstacle standing right in front of his plan to ruin Shido’s life. Nothing else mattered, not Joker, or the Phantom Thieves, or hell, even Akira.

He was gripping the sink with such force that his arms were shaking, eyes wild and unfocused beneath the messy strands of his hair. He didn’t care, he told himself. He didn’t care about Joker, or the fact that his death would be Goro’s first committed in the real flesh, nothing but a gun and a bullet.

This was everything they’ve been working towards. Goro was finally needed. Shido needed Goro.

If this is what it took, Goro was pouncing at the opportunity. Though, there was a voice in the back of his mind that wasn’t sure why being needed was such a harrowing feeling.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

Akira’s eyes bored into the sandwich on his plate.

His favorite kind of sandwich— turkey, lettuce, and tomato— laid completely untouched in its bed of fries. He wanted to eat it, he really did, but he was sitting in a stiff diner booth, wedged between Yusuke and Ryuji, Ryuji’s post-workout scent assaulting his nose and taking Akira’s appetite as a casualty.

“Hey ‘Kira, can I bum some fries off of you?” Ryuji asked, hands already in Akira’s food.

“Take as much as you want. I’m… not really hungry,” Akira gave a weak smile.

Makoto, looking rather comfortable in her spacious booth occupied solely by Ann, took a folder from her bag and placed it on the table. “Did you all come prepared with your lists?” She asked, pulling a neat sheet of panda stationary from her folder.

Ryuji shuffled around in his pockets, grabbing a crumpled sheet of loose-leaf. He smoothed it out over the table. “Mine’s mostly filled with athletes.”

Yusuke stirred his straw in the drink that he most definitely would not be paying for. “Likewise, I wrote down many artists on my list.”

Ann hummed. “Isn’t that a good thing, though?” She unfolded her list. “There’s a bunch of models on mine. We each have our own little niches— doesn’t that mean we’d cover a bigger scope of people?”

Makoto nodded. “Yes. The more people we have, the better.”

“Mine doesn't really have a theme going for it,” Akira said, fidgeting with the corner of his paper. “Let’s see…” His eyes scanned the list. “I have a politician, a popular shogi player, a shady doctor who’s pretty well known around Yongen-Jaya…” he jumped to the bottom of the list, “um… Goro Akechi.”

Ryuji barked out a laugh. “That guy? He wouldn’t survive a day in the Metaverse.” He grabbed another fry from Akira’s plate. “I mean, I still wrote him on my list, ‘cus I’ve been seein’ his face everywhere.”

“Mhmm, I wrote him down too,” Ann said between bites of cake.

“Me as well,” Yusuke added.

“He was on my TV while I was working on my list, actually,” Makoto sighed. “He’s unavoidable.”

Morgana peeked his head from Akira’s lap, eyeing Makoto and Ann across the table. “Writing Akechi down was my idea, actually. Akira didn’t even want to suggest him.”

Akira’s hand rubbed the back of his neck. “I dunno, it just felt… weird. I mean, I’d just gotten home after a visit to his apartment when I wrote that list.”

“You were at his apartment?” Ryuji gawked. “You’re befriending the enemy!”

“I’m not befriending him,” Akira defended. “We’re not friends.”

“You’re not friends, but you see him after school?” Ann asked.

“Well, yeah.”

“He invites you over, and you invite him out, and you frequently spend your free time together?” Ann elaborated.

“We usually call that hanging out with friends,” Makoto said.

Akira understood their argument, he really did, but something felt off about calling Akechi a friend. There was a different element to their relationship that he couldn't exactly pinpoint— the competitiveness, and the desire to constantly outwit each other. He didn't call Akechi his friend for the same reason that he didn't see Crow as a friend. They were more akin to rivals.

“I dunno how you could even hold a conversation with the guy. It’d be like hangin’ around a porcelain doll,” Ryuji butt in. “‘Specially with that weird smile he does on TV. You ever see those movies where there’s like, a haunted doll in a house?”

Akira’s mind flashed to an image of Akechi as an eerie, possessed puppet, deep cracks in his disfigured face as his body was contorted by wiry strings. A cold shiver shot down his spine. “He’s actually quite…” Akira didn’t exactly know how to explain Akechi. Clever, yes, and rather annoying at times. A person who got Akira to question his own worldview. A bit of a pain in the ass. Someone who was deeply damaged, but chose to hide that hurt under a mask. “...interesting, if you manage to get him to talk about anything other than the Phantom Thieves.”

“What do you guys talk about, anyway? His skincare routine?” Ryuji’s hands hovered towards Yusuke’s plate.

“It would be fascinating to hear about the life of a celebrity,” Yusuke said. He let out a gasp at the sight of Ryuji’s hand infiltrating his food, pushing the plate away from his prying hands. “I’ve been studying European Realism… I find the relationship between the idealized members of society in contrast with the more alienated members to be quite thought-provoking.”

Idealized. There was some truth to the Detective Prince, Akira thought. Akechi prided himself in his well-mannered nature, and he was very analytical and inquisitive, as a detective would be. He was sure that Akechi found comfort in his more formal attire and enjoyed looking presentable. It was the inhuman standards that Akechi placed on himself that formed the Detective Prince mask. He had a habit of constantly fixing his hair, and outside of Leblanc, his resting face always seemed to be a courteous smile. Any time a negative emotion graced his face, something more human, it was immediately exterminated in exchange for that smile.

“We usually just talk about Featherman,” Akira said.

“Really?” Ryuji’s eyes went wide. “I can’t imagine him sittin’ in front of a TV and watchin’ that kinda stuff.”

The image of Akechi in Leblanc’s attic, voice raw as he mentioned his mother, prodded at Akira’s brain. “Mhmm,” he poked at his sandwich. There was something rather unsettling about seeing how the public perceived Akechi, no knowledge of what he was like when the cameras weren’t rolling. “Now, if we’re done talking about Akechi,” Akechi’s name left his mouth like it was a swear, “do you wanna work on that popularity ranking?”

Yusuke sat hunched over, recording names on a tier list— the master list, Morgana dubbed it— as Makoto read aloud each individual list. While most of the names sat on the bottom tier— the tier designated for the least well-known of Tokyo's notable figures, appearing on only one of the Thieves’ lists— there were quite a few people in the more famous tiers. Yoshida managed to make his way onto the next tier, as Makoto had also listed him. His name sat between a fashion designer that Ann and Yusuke were familiar with and an athlete that Makoto and Ryuji had written down. At the very top tier sat Goro Akechi, one of the only names that had managed to be on every list. Akira wanted to pluck the pen from Yusuke’s hand and scribble the name out in jet black ink.

Makoto’s eyes trailed down Ryuji’s list, stopping at a name that was scribbled particularly sloppily. “Ryuji… Why did you list the president of the United States?”

“Oh, that’s who that is?” Ryuji’s eyes went wide. “I heard my teacher say his name, ‘n I wrote it down ‘cause I assumed it was someone important.”

“We’re focusing on people in Tokyo.”

“Uh, huh. I know that now. How was I supposed to know this guy wasn’t Japanese?”

Makoto blinked.

“To be fair…” Akira butt in, “who’s to say the President doesn’t travel to Tokyo by jet every time he wants to go to Mementos?”

“Exactly!” Ryuji grinned. “Yusuke, write his name down!”

Makoto let out a deep sigh, attention turning back towards Ryuji’s list. “Oda Nobunaga… He’s been dead for centuries.”

“Look, the Metaverse is freaky. It could totally be possible for a dead guy to exist there.”

Morgana looked like he was about to say something, but before he could get a word in, Makoto asked, “What business would Oda Nobunaga have in Mementos?”

“We don’t know— that’s why we’ve been sending Joker down there to investigate,” Ryuji said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Akira imagined himself on one knee, slipping a ring onto Nobunaga’s finger as he held the stem of a rose in his mouth. He recoiled. “I really hope it’s not—”

Ryuji’s phone buzzed with a loud ping, interrupting Akira before he could vent about his woes of hypothetically falling for a centuries old daimyo. Ryuji peered at his phone from where it sat on the table, shoving a few more of Akira’s fries into his mouth.

“Oh, it’s Mishima,” Ryuji said between bites. He held his phone closer to his face, reading the message slowly as a deep crease formed in his brow. “The Phan-site is down.”

“Huh? How come?” Ann asked, leaning against the table.

“He said somethin’ about a hacking attempt.” Akira heard the sound of Ryuji striking his foot against the ground from under the table. “What the hell?”

“Ryuji, quiet down,” Makoto hushed.

“Quiet down? There’s someone out there tryna sabotage us!” Ryuji’s voice roared. “You agree with me, right ‘Kira?” Ryuji nudged Akira with his elbow, gesturing towards Makoto.

“I agree, but,” Akira’s voice fell into a whisper, “we have secret identities.” He gave an awkward smile.

Ryuji sighed. “Yeah… Sorry, guys.” He flicked Akira’s arm with one of his fries. “I just wish we knew who it was— like, is it some creepy person in their mom’s basem*nt, or some totally advanced hacker group?” Ryuji aimlessly kept flicking at Akira’s arm with his fry, face in a deep scowl until he suddenly gasped, “What if it’s Crow?”

Akira imagined Crow sitting in a dark room, nothing but the screen of a monitor lighting his face as he furiously tapped away at a keyboard, wiping away the bead of sweat that formed at his forehead from the overheating PCs surrounding him. “I mean, it’s possible. I just don’t understand why he’d go out of his way to meet with me in Mementos or ask me to teach him how to change hearts if his big evil plan— if he even has one— was focused on the Phan-site.”

To gather intel perhaps, a voice in the back of Akira’s head stated rather bluntly. He could be working for the unknown Metaverse user with a black mask. There could be many people working for Black Mask, actually, and this newly involved hacker could be one of them. He knew that he shouldn’t have let himself feel so close to Crow, because these little seeds of apprehension rooted in the folds of Akira's brain gave him a pang of guilt every time he questioned what Crow’s true motives were. It almost reminded Akira of the way the people around him discussed Akechi; he often wondered if he was the only person in Akechi’s life who had bothered to get to know him outside of his TV personality, and whether or not his relationship with Crow was any similar, with Akira being the only one to witness those sides of him.

“Why did he ask you how to change hearts, anyway?” Ann asked.

“I dunno. It’s one of the big mysteries surrounding Crow— we don’t even know how long he’s been using the Metaverse for, or how he gained access to it.” Akira’s mind wandered to the moment that the Nav app showed up on his phone, back when he first arrived in Tokyo, and the amount of times he’d deleted it until he accidentally transported himself to Kamoshida’s palace. Ryuji was only given the app after he rebelled against Shadow Kamoshida— and the same went for Ann.

Rebellion, his brain repeated. If Crow’s experience was anything like the Thieves, he’d awoken his Persona in a fit of rebellion, an all-engulfing flame of rage that burned so deep that he was able to tear out the very essence of himself, expose it in such a vulnerable state and turn it into a strength. Akira could see the rage, the rebellion, but he couldn’t quite see that kind of vulnerability in Crow. He wondered what— or who, rather— was able to provoke such an intimate, deep fury from Crow.

Makoto looked deep in thought— deeper than Akira, somehow— lips pursed and intense crinkle in her brow. “A hacking attempt could be very serious,” she muttered.

“Just what we needed— another faceless person to deal with,” Ryuji sighed.

Akira gave a weak smile. “I guess it means we’re really getting famous now, yeah?”

Akira was definitely getting better at crafting infiltration tools.

At least, that’s what he would have said a mere moment ago, before the loud ping from his phone startled him enough to prick his finger with a tin clasp. He didn’t want to think about what kind of bacterias were lingering on the clasp, which was probably sitting at the bottom of that tray at the second hand shop for ages. He made a mental note to check in with Takemi tomorrow, praying that he didn’t need a tetanus shot.

Akira put the tip of his finger in his mouth, glancing over at his phone. The message was from Akechi:

I’m at the bathhouse.

It wasn’t an invite, or a suggestion, or anything that Akira knew how to reply to, but knowing Akechi, there was always some kind of hidden meaning.

The only reason why Akechi would send that kind of message was if he had a reason to. He was giving Akira a choice, and making him work if the answer was yes, clearly, because he didn’t specify what bathhouse he was at.

The answer was obvious, Akira thought as he made a brisk walk across the street. There was only one bathhouse in Tokyo that Akechi knew for a fact that Akira was mutually aware of.

Akira instantly spotted Akechi upon entering the locker area, who was tapping at his phone, a towel around his waist. Akechi noticed the presence lurking above him and looked up at Akira.

“Oh, you came here faster than I expected. I’m impressed,” he said.

“I managed to impress the detective?” Akira took the seat next to Akechi, untying his shoes and placing them in a locker.

“Mm, yes. I actually invited you here because I hid clues pointing to the answer to Tokyo's next murder scandal. You have fifteen minutes to find them.”

Akira laughed, stripping off his socks and shirt. He ignored the way that Akechi’s eyes were so clearly darting to his chest in quick, momentary glances. “So… what brings you here?” asked Akira.

Akira could immediately tell that something was bothering Akechi. The cryptic text message, combined with the dull look in his eyes that hid behind a cheerful exterior were all he needed to know that Akechi was in another one of his moods.

“I was just hoping I could relax for a bit.” Akechi briefly picked at the skin on his hand before quickly stopping himself. The skin was raw, a painful looking pink color that was rough and chapped. “I didn’t expect that you’d actually meet me here.”

Akira wanted to say something, grip him on the shoulders and tell him to just spit everything out so Akira could do something to help, but he’s been talking to Akechi for long enough to know that that simply wasn’t how he worked. He knew bits of his past, yes, but Akechi refused to let the conversation go deeper than that.

Instead, Akira wrapped a towel firmly around his waist. “You ready?”

The second Akira opened the door to the bathing area, he was ambushed by a large gust of steam. He took a long, deep breath, the hot air filling his lungs and loosening all of the tension in his muscles. He walked over to the bath like the steam was luring him in, unwrapping his towel, quickly washing himself at one of the faucets and submerging himself into the warm water.

Akechi followed him, though he was much slower than Akira. He combed his fingers through his hair a few times before stopping at one of the faucets and unwrapping the towel from his waist. Akira’s eyes flicked over to the row of scars on his thighs running almost down to his knee, ranging from a faded white color to a stark red. He didn't quite remember seeing them when he went to the bathhouse with Akechi a week or so ago. He opened his mouth for a second, but remembered what happened the last few times he showed serious concern for the detective. He ultimately decided that it would be best not to say anything.

Akechi took a seat in the water across from Akira. There was nobody else in the bath. Akira let out a long sigh of relief— he remembered how his last few trips to the bathhouse ended rather quickly after the same old man repeatedly hogged the faucet, filling the bath with boiling water so hot that Akira could barely breathe in the dense steam.

Akechi lingered over to the faucet, giving it a tight twist. “Do you mind if I make the water a bit hotter?” He asked, specifically after the faucet was already running.

“Depends how you define ‘a bit hotter,’” Akira said.

Akechi pursed his lips. “I like my baths quite hot.”

“Mm… no.”

Akechi gave an apologetic smile, screwing the faucet off and returning back to his place across from Akira.

Akechi was unusually quiet. Akira wasn’t exactly sure if it was because of his mood, or because Akechi truly did just want to spend the time relaxing. It was a bit unnerving, actually, seeing Akechi submerged in the water up to his chest, eyes closed and head thrown back as he took deep breaths of steam. Akira was so used to seeing Akechi’s eyes on him, studying him with a strange look that he couldn’t quite name— maybe it was admiration, or some form of envy— that seeing him in such a calm state felt almost wrong.

Akechi took a long exhale. “It’s been a while since I’ve felt this relaxed. I forgot how much time has passed since I’ve gone to a bathhouse.”

“Mhm, I’ve been coming here a lot, actually,” Akira hummed.

“I used to spend a lot of time at the bathhouse too— there’s a nice one not too far from Shibuya.” Akechi took another deep inhale.

“What made you stop?”

Akechi’s smile faltered. “Ah, well…” He scowled. “I mentioned that my mother used to send me there when she had men over for the night. And after she passed I…” Akechi looked down at his lap, like the water was spelling out a message for him. “Well, I found her in the bathtub, and,” Akira noticed the way Akechi’s nails dug into his thighs when he talked, “I still see her sometimes. I had to get an apartment without a tub because I just kept seeing her, and—” Akechi plastered a smile on his face. His lips were trembling slightly. “Do you mind if we go back to Leblanc?”

Akechi was fairly quick to get dressed— though he didn’t make a competition of it this time— scurrying out the door before Akira even had a chance to put his pants back on. Upon throwing the rest of his clothes on, Akira walked out into the alleyway, only to realize that Akechi was nowhere to be found. Akira’s eyes lingered towards the vending machine next to him— one of the only sources of light in the dim alley— fixing on a row of milk bottles. He fished a few coins from his pocket, inserting them into the machine and purchasing two bottles before walking back to the cafe.

Akechi was leaning against the door of Leblanc, wearing his usual blue sweater vest, arms crossed with a harsh scowl carved in his face. Leblanc’s streetlamp casted a sharp yellow light on him. Akira could see the red of his cheeks, the puffy skin around his eyes and the tears that barely perked at their corners.

“Are you okay?” Akira’s voice was gentle.

“What an inane question,” Akechi scoffed.

Akira’s mind instantly shot to Crow, the way he’d wedge a barrier between him and Joker with insults, and the way his lips scoffed around the word ‘cretin’ after Joker asked about his ray gun. “Akechi, I know you said you’re over it, but—”

“I am over it.” Akechi did not look at Akira.

“What you described in the bathhouse didn’t sound very ‘over it.’” Akira took a deep breath. “I know you’ve been through a lot, and you’re going through a lot, but you don’t have to keep pushing people away. I’m here for you, Akechi. I think you need—”

“I need what, exactly?” Akechi’s eyes bore into Akira’s.

“In the bathhouse, I saw—”

Akechi cut Akira off before he could even formulate a coherent thought. “This conversation is over.”

“You didn’t even let me finish my sentence.”

“I already know exactly what you were going to say,” Akechi spat. “I don’t need your sympathy.”

“Akechi, you’re hurting yourself.”

“You keep telling me that I need help, but when I try to help myself then suddenly you have a problem with it.” Akechi was digging his fingers into his arms. “I’m sorry, but the world doesn’t adhere to your idealistic bullsh*t, Kurusu.”

Akira’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth to say something, but was immediately cut off by Akechi again.

“Can we please talk about anything besides this?” He asked. His voice no longer had that sharp edge to it, his words instead coming out as if he were almost pleading with Akira.

Akira froze for a second. He never quite heard Akechi's voice sound so frail before, except for the last time his mother was brought up back when they watched Featherman together for the first time. “I got this for you,” Akira mumbled. He did not look Akechi in the eyes when he placed a bottle of milk in his hand.

Akechi’s expression was unreadable. He stared at the milk in his hand with glassy eyes like it was a bomb, or it was the toy in the window that he’s yearned after for so long. His brow furrowed so slightly, and the faintest trace of a crooked smile twitched onto his lips before he let out a loud snort. “You’re unbelievable.”

Akira’s eyes met with Akechi’s. “Wha—?”

Akechi was laughing, genuinely laughing, and it was nothing like that light, airy chuckle that he gave on TV, or the giggle he’d let out around his fans. He was cackling, holding his stomach as he wiped away a tear with the back of his hand. “I can’t believe you remembered,” he said between gasps, “my milk preferences— that I always drink milk after a bath.” He rolled the bottle in his hand, taking a glance at the label before he let out another snort. “And this is the brand I always get! Unbelievable!”

Akira stared at Akechi with wide eyes, completely unblinking as Akechi heaved with laughter. His face was redder than before, the tears that were previously just barely prodding out of his eyes now fully running down his face. Akira couldn’t help but notice just how soft Akechi’s hair looked in its wild state, and the slight purple blemishes under his eyes from where his makeup had worn off. His eyes darted to Akechi’s chapped lips.

At that moment, he almost wished he could be Akechi— able to ignore blatant self truths that sat right in front of his eyes, silence them and let them fester until they disappeared one day— but he couldn’t ignore the heat that flared on his cheeks, or the way his heart hammered in his chest so fiercely that his knees began to wobble.

As he watched Akechi with a soft smile, his own words to Crow echoed in his ears; Akira so badly wanted to make Akechi happy, and Akechi made him happy too, actually. He never quite realized how true this rang until now.

Goro Akechi, of all people. Not the Detective Prince, or whatever pitying perception of him that he was sure the few people who knew of his past held. Just Goro Akechi. It was remarkable, really.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

Metal conducts electricity. Even a toddler knows that.

The lightning in the sky wasn’t real. Nothing around him was; not the rain that hammered against his gauntlets, or the wind that rustled his hair.

Crow still had no interest in figuring out what would happen if a spark of cognitive lightning decided to strike him where he stood, right on his helmet, which was very much made out of metal. The main issue was that the structure that stood in front of him— the towering concrete dome that sat behind an elaborate portico— looked to be impenetrable. The exterior was stunning: pearly white columns that held a frieze with complex carvings, topped by a pediment decorated with a relief sculpture of the palace ruler. Crow most certainly would not call the palace ruler flattering by any means— though he wouldn’t deny that he was rather impressed with the intricacy of the sculpture.

The thing that stood out to him the most, though, was the complete lack of an entrance. Crow was definitely familiar with Greek and Roman architecture, as his interest in ancient philosophy has sent him down many different rabbit holes of research, but surely he wouldn’t need to be aware of the nuances of Greek column styles to know that most structures would have a door— or at the very least, some kind of hole to enter through.

If Crow knew anything, it was that there was always a way to get into these palaces. Some were more stubborn than others, yes, and this one in particular was already seeming like it was going to be a bit of a pain in the ass, but Crow was going to find a way. He had to.

Crow’s eyes darted to a large statue of a young woman draped in a cloth robe, sitting in between two of the columns in blinding white marble and radiating a light similar to Robin Hood’s bless magic. Resting in her hand was a small set of scales suspended by a string.

Crow recognized her immediately— Justitia, the Roman goddess of justice. Her scales— the scales of justice— were perfectly balanced.

Everything made sense now.

Crow reached into his pockets, grabbing for his bag of trail mix. He plucked a few of the raisins from the mix and dropped them onto the scale to the left. The left scale slowly tipped downwards as the scale to the right inched upwards.

There was a deep rumbling noise, shaking the ground with heavy tremors as Crow gripped the base of the statue for support. The marble wall of the portico split vertically down the middle, creeping apart until the entrance was large enough for Crow to walk through.

The interior of the palace was blinding, piercing light bouncing off of milky white marble. The room was filled with more statues of the palace ruler, though much more grand this time, making the elaborate pediment carving from earlier seem like the mere work of a grade schooler. Folds of fabric were carved with such detail that they gave the illusion of texture, and the smoothness of the skin was nearly life-like. Crow let out a sharp hiss when his eyes were unfortunate enough to land on the imposing nude statue towards the left.

In the back of this room, there was a simple door. No guards, no locks. Crow slowly pushed the door open.

The next room was far larger than the last. It was the interior of the dome, lined with barred doors that circled the perimeter, scaling up so many floors that Crow was unable to count them. There was a single hallway across from him that looked to have a safe room, though it was inaccessible at the moment, because in the middle of the room sat a large stone watchtower, pristine among the gloomy, decaying rooms encircling it.

Just as Crow had suspected. Justitia, known for her depictions outside of courthouses in many different countries, was always portrayed with a scale. The universal symbol of justice, where one was to have their evidence weighed to determine a guilty or innocent verdict. Crow had placed “evidence” on the left of the scale, the evidence weighing against him and determining that he was guilty, giving him access to the palace. What he had walked into was very much not what the palace’s keyword was, though Crow could blame its polished exterior for that.

This palace was a prison.

A panopticon, to be exact— based on an English philosopher's design of an institution where prisoners were under the impression that they were being potentially watched at all times. One guard was to stand in the large stone tower in the middle, given the view of every cell in the prison, and inmates were never aware of whether they were being watched at that very moment or not. Thus, they were left to self-regulate.

This was going to make palace infiltration rather difficult.

Crow crouched behind a corner, eyes scanning the area for some kind of ladder or vent. If he could make his way towards the tower in the middle, away from the cells, he would be out of the guard’s line of vision. The only issue was that he was completely unsure of when the guard was looking in his direction.

And that time seemed to be now, because a blinding spotlight was being shone directly at Crow despite the fact that he was fairly well hidden from the guard. He really did hate the Metaverse sometimes.

A strange gurgling sound echoed throughout the room, and ropes of black clouds whipped together until they formed the shape of a girl Crow’s age, short brown hair with a braid that curved around her scalp like a headband. She was wearing a prison guard’s uniform. Crow immediately recognized her as Sae’s sister.

“I was ordered to eliminate any Phantom Thieves that tried to infiltrate the prison,” she said. Her eyes were dull.

“I find it rather insulting that you’d confuse me for a Phantom Thief,” Crow scoffed.

Shido’s third folder had contained an image of the principal of Shujin Academy— Kobayakawa— the first of three main targets on Crow’s hit list. Crow was not intending to kill him today, rather, he was simply infiltrating his palace to find a route for a quick kill after the Thieves were done handling Medjed.

He questioned what it must be like to go to Shujin if this was how the principal perceived the school— a stunning exterior that carefully hides the surveillance state that exists within. Cognitive Makoto Niijima seemed to be responsible for watching all these cells, which, as his eyes adjusted to the change in lighting, contained students. A voice in the back of Crow’s mind wondered if Akira was in one of these cells, though he couldn’t imagine Principal Kobayakawa caring enough to memorize the faces of all of the students in Shujin, unless Akira managed to stick out to him for some reason.

Cognitive Makoto looked at Crow with a stern look in her eyes. “I was still told that intruders had to be dealt with.” Her hands were wrapped around a deep black baton.

Crow hissed with a sharp laugh. “Give me your worst.”

Crow felt bad. He really did, truly, because Cognitive Makoto didn’t have a chance. Maybe, if he was feeling a bit nicer, or perhaps more ruthless, he would consider playing a bit more fair, but unfortunately for Makoto, Crow had plans with Akira at seven, and he wanted enough time to retouch his makeup before they went out.

Cognitive Makoto gave a fierce crack of her baton against the wall, and two shadows— both Cerberus, Crow recognized— arose behind her from a mangled mess of black energy.

This was perfect.

Crow whipped his head back, tearing his mask off with such intensity that his hair splayed in wild directions, framing his face like an incoherent tangle of vines. “Loki!” His shout was bloodcurdling. “Call of Chaos!”

A shockwave of sharp red erupted from Loki, clouds of crimson and black lashing around the shadows and settling at their feet, whipping around them like a storm. The Cerberus’ snowy white fur transformed into an ashy gray, their eyes pooling with a searing yellow that pierced into Crow as if they were beams of light.

The shadows slowly turned around to face Cognitive Makoto.

Crow knew that he had already won this fight, so he took a sharp veer towards the hallway across the room, the hot, dense air of Cerberus’ fiery inferno filling his lungs as he shut the door to the safe room behind him.

Goro’s stop back at his apartment was rather quick, having just enough time to switch out of his school uniform, touch up his hair and makeup, and empty the palace infiltration tools from his briefcase.

Though it really hurt him to say that all of the effort he had put into his hair was futile, as the second Akira approached Goro outside of Penguin Sniper, Akira’s hands had already found themselves in Goro’s hair, tousling the strands between his fingers as his tongue darted out of his mouth in deep focus.

“Don’t want people at the cafe to recognize you again, right, Akechi?” Akira asked, sliding his glasses up Goro’s face with a grin.

Goro moved to brush the hair out of his eyes, but Akira’s hand clasped around his wrist before he could even try. “Hey, don’t ruin all my hard work!” Akira huffed.

“Your hard work was at the expense of mine. I spent a lot of time fixing my hair before I came here,” said Goro.

“Were you trying to make yourself all pretty for me?” Akira’s mouth grew into a cheeky grin.

Goro hated the way his face started to heat up. “Well, like you mentioned earlier, I happened to get recognized the last time we went out to a cafe. I was hoping to make myself presentable in the chance that that would happen again.”

“Oh, so looking like me means you’re not presentable?” Akira squinted at Goro.

Goro simply ignored him. “What cafe were you thinking of going to? I picked last time, so it’s only fair I let you choose tonight.”

“Well, if we’re being completely accurate, you’ve actually picked the cafe,” Akira started counting on his fingers, “every time you’ve shown up at Leblanc.”

Goro’s eye twitched. “You’re only further proving my point, yes?” He smiled.

“Okay, well how would you feel if we went to the—”

“I am not going to a maid cafe with you. I wouldn’t enjoy myself in the slightest, and I’m sure you know exactly why.”

Akira pursed his lips. “If the job listing is still up, I could—”

“I recall having this conversation with you already.” Goro brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes, causing Akira’s lips to drop into a pout. “Plus, if I got recognized at a maid cafe of all things, I’m sure that would be a detriment to my public image.”

“Ah, yes, the squeaky clean Detective Prince,” Akira sighed. “I mean, you’re wearing a disguise right now. You don’t have to be the Detective Prince in public tonight.”

Goro furrowed his brows, staring at Akira through the lenses of his glasses. Akira was perhaps the only person in Tokyo who would pick a night with Goro Akechi over the Detective Prince. “I’d still rather choose somewhere else. I find no enjoyment in ogling at women while I’m trying to have my coffee.”

Akira’s grin came back to his face. “Well, what about a cafe where we could ogle at men?”

Goro was exceedingly grateful that his brain seemed to work faster than his mouth, because he was able to stop himself before a mortifying comment about Leblanc slipped from his tongue. “No ogling tonight,” he said, making sure to commit that rule to memory, as he very much noticed how bad his staring problem has been getting when it came to Akira.

“You’re no fun,” Akira groaned. He turned around, eyes scanning the streets of Kichijoji; the group making their way into Penguin Sniper, the bright clusters of shopping bags that people carried, the colorful lights that painted the district a soft blue and yellow. His eyes stopped at the alleyway to their left, lit by a row of orange and purple lanterns. “Let’s go to one of those food stands.”

“Are you a fan? I can’t say I’m too familiar with any of them.” Goro was in Kichijoji very often, yes, but he had a routine. Penguin Sniper and Jazz Jin were his go-to places, with occasional stops at the surrounding stores. He couldn’t recall the last time he even stepped foot in that alleyway.

“Nope, I’ve never been there either, which is exactly why we’re going.” Akira led Goro over to the alleyway, barely taking a second to glance at the menu of the first food stand he saw before he plopped down in one of the stools.

“What kind of food do they serve?” Goro asked, taking a seat beside him.

“Umm…” Akira squinted at the menu, “I’ll take… lamb skewers, and four pork buns— three fried and one steamed, and— no way, they have tea eggs here? Four of those, and a scallion pancake. Wait— two scallion pancakes.” He turned towards Goro. “I guess they serve Chinese food.”

Goro gave a gentle laugh. “Ah… you must really want to try everything.”

“Mhmm.” Akira grabbed a pair of chopsticks as the food vendor placed his food in front of him. “I mean, this is my first time in a big city like Tokyo, so I may as well make the best of it. They don’t have this kind of food back at ho—” he paused for a second, “…back where I’m from.”

Goro’s eyes trailed across the large buffet of food lined up in front of Akira. “Are you sure you have the stomach to fit that all?”

Akira let out a laugh, rolling his eyes playfully. “The food’s for you too. We’re sharing.” He nudged the scallion pancakes towards Goro, placing one of the pork buns on top of it. “See, I even got you the steamed pork bun, ‘cause I remembered you said you don’t eat fried food.” He squinted. “I guess the scallion pancake is technically fried… sorry.”

“Pan fried is fine, I just try to avoid deep fried food.” Goro gave a polite smile. “Thank you for the kind gesture.”

Goro leaned over to grab a set of chopsticks, but he couldn’t seem to see anything. The entire food stand was shrouded by a strange layer of fog, which followed him everywhere he looked. Despite being unable to see, he could very much hear Akira’s stifled laughs.

“The glasses…” he choked out. “The steam from the food is fogging them up.”

Goro furrowed his brows, yanking the glasses off his face and wiping the lenses down with the hem of his shirt. “I don’t understand how you willingly deal with this,” he huffed.

“It’s for fashion, Akechi. You should get it, of all people.” He gestured towards the scallion pancakes. “By the way, don’t eat the one at the bottom. It’s for Morgana.”

“Understood,” Goro smiled, placing the glasses on the table and flattening out his hair. He reached over for the scallion pancake, but before he could grab it, he heard a blunt clattering noise as his chopsticks banged into Akira’s. “Um… may I ask why your chopsticks are on my plate?”

“I wanted to try your food,” Akira said, voice muffled from a mouth full of pancake.

“Ah, I’m just not used to people grabbing things off of my plate.”

“Oh, I do it with my friends all the time,” Akira laughed. “Me and my one friend— Ryuji, you met him at the TV station— go out for ramen a lot, and we basically make it a competition to see who could steal more of the other’s food.”

Goro ignored the ugly black ball that formed in his stomach at the mention of Akira’s friends. He poked his chopstick into his pork bun, watching the way the steamed dough bounced at the disturbance. “Oh, ramen. It’s a bit too messy for my liking, so I don’t get it all too often.”

“There’s this really good ramen joint near my old school— I used to go there all the time. I didn’t think I’d ever try anything as good as their stuff, but there’s just so many options in Tokyo,” Akira smiled, face stuffed with lamb.

Goro finished his last bite of pork bun, noticing the way Akira’s arm immediately migrated across the table, forming a wall between Goro and the three remaining pork buns. Goro let out a sigh. “Since you brought it up, what was your life like before you came to Tokyo?”

Akira paused for a second. “Oh, well…” He took a deep breath. “My parents haven’t bothered to contact me since I got here a few months ago. I’m sure you could guess how things were based on that fact alone.”

“Ah… Have you tried reaching out to them?” Goro asked.

“Mm… no. Not really interested.”

Goro’s mind wandered to his first proper meeting with Shido, how difficult it was to reach out to him and how persistent he was on presenting his usefulness to his father.

Before Goro had a chance to respond, Akira continued, “I mean, our relationship was never perfect, but after the whole probation thing, they didn’t even want to listen to me when I tried to explain what happened— that I was innocent, and the accuser had ties to the police.” Akira had never mentioned anything about probation to Goro. Goro wondered if Akira assumed that the detective knew about his arrest from a background check— which was very much the case— of if Akira was just used to people knowing about his arrest and seeing him as some kind of delinquent. Goro knew how bad the rumors were, given that they'd managed to find their way to his own school, which prompted him to do a background check in the first place.

Akira huffed, "The accuser's name wasn't even present on any of the court documents."

Goro knew firsthand how corrupt the justice system could be— the way it bent to the will of those in power, leaving the undesirable members of society to fend for themselves, abandoned once they’ve been sucked of any use. He was sure there were dozens of people like the accuser Akira had mentioned, using their ties to law enforcement to breed corruption. His mind wandered to the first time he had seen his birth certificate, his father’s name completely absent from the paper.

Akira’s expression was blank. “My parents just seemed to… cast me away after everything.”

Goro’s hands were shaking around his chopsticks. “I guess we have that in common.”

Akira gave a weak smile. “Y’know, I never really made that connection. I guess it’s why I opened up to you. I haven’t told anyone else about this.”

“Do you ever resent your parents?” Goro’s voice was hushed, almost a whisper.

Akira poked at a chunk of lamb with his chopstick. “Honestly I’m just… learning to find my own happiness. If I sat around filled with anger, letting all my negative emotions dwell inside of me, I think I’d be miserable.” He took a deep breath, releasing a sigh. “That isn’t to say I’ve just moved on— but I won’t let this consume me.”

“What if that happiness is found in retribution? Don’t you think the people who wronged you deserve to be brought to justice?”

“What better way to get back at the people who wronged you than to show them that you’re happier without them?” Akira let out a bitter laugh.

“But that isn’t just,” said Goro. “There isn’t justice in letting them walk free.”

“Showing them that I’m happy— that I don’t need them— I think that’s all I need to be able to go on with my life.”

“What about proving to them that they needed you all along? Making them depend on you, and then using that reliance to rip everything away from them?”

“I… I can’t do that to myself. I know what kind of person I am, and I know that putting myself in that mindset would make me spiral.” Akira’s eyes wandered to Goro’s face. “I need to live for myself.”

Goro’s eyes were vacant. “What if you haven’t found a reason to keep going outside of that grudge?”

“Then I’d find another reason.”

“You’re very strange, Kurusu.”

Something in Sae’s face looked rather agitated.

She has always had a stern look to her, but the way she was staring at her laptop screen made Goro think that if looks could kill, then whatever Sae was glaring at would most certainly be dead.

Goro squinted, trying to get a look at her laptop screen from where Sae was sitting at her usual circular table, but the glare from the bright lights of the office made her screen unreadable.

He took a few steps closer, only for Sae to whip her head around, eyes meeting his. “Oh, Akechi, it’s just you.”

“Hello, Sae-san!” Goro’s lips grew into a pleasant smile.

“Why did you come all the way here? Don’t you have school right now?” She asked, her eyes returning to her laptop.

“Mm, yes, but after I saw the news I was told to come here.” He took a seat at the table, across from Sae. “I would ask if you’ve heard the news as well, but I’ve found that it’s been rather… unavoidable since it broke. It’s all anyone at school has been talking about.”

Goro watched as Sae’s fingers danced across the keyboard— he had always been impressed with how much faster she was at typing than him— a harsh tap tap tap filling the room. “If you’re referring to Medjed, then I’ve been equally hounded by the news about them,” said Sae, her eyes unbreaking from the screen.

“These Phantom Thieves have been making headlines lately. I just can’t believe they’re getting so popular,” Goro sighed. He fidgeted with the to-go cup of coffee in his hands.

“They’re embarrassing us. First, they target a mafia boss that we’ve been investigating for months, making our law enforcement look incompetent, and then they draw the attention of a famous anonymous hacker group.” The agitated look from earlier was back on Sae’s face.

“I can’t say I care too much for the police, but this whole situation concerns me because of how it reflects on our justice system. People have more faith in masked vigilantes than they do in the system.” Goro’s face contorted into a grimace.

“Well, now we have to concern ourselves with two anonymous groups conflicting with each other, and no matter what happens, it will reflect poorly on us.”

“Just when I thought the Phantom Thieves case couldn’t get any more stressful,” Goro sighed. “We still don’t know their method of action, or what a ‘change in heart’ consists of, exactly.”

Goro thought back to when he first met Joker, demanding him to teach him how to change hearts. Goro was all too familiar with how the Metaverse worked, but Joker’s recognition of the concept of changing hearts was all he needed to confirm that he was the leader of the Phantom Thieves and secure a partnership with him.

“I actually have a deduction…” Goro’s hand was resting on his chin. “It could be argued that the people involved in the mental shutdown cases and the psychotic breakdown cases also had a sudden change in heart, yes?”

“I’ve made that connection, but there isn’t much evidence to connect the two,” said Sae.

“I’m aware, but I just find it rather… odd that there are multiple cases involving a change in heart, all of which involve unknown methods of action.” Goro’s face was stern. “I just don’t think the Phantom Thieves are the heroes that the public are making them out to be. I’m not sure if it’s vigilantism, or if they are simply trying to manipulate public perception to turn them against the justice system, but…” he gave a light laugh, “well, I’m sure you know how I feel about the Phantom Thieves by this point.”

Sae looked up from her screen, stern eyes meeting Goro’s. “I’ll keep that in mind. We’ll continue to do as much as we’re able to.” Her eyes drifted down towards Goro’s coffee, which was resting in his hands. “Where did you get that?”

“Oh, this? It’s from Leblanc. I believe you’re familiar with the cafe through of the daughter of that one mental shutdown victim.”

“Yes, I recognized the cup.” Her eyes were trained on the trail of steam clouding around Goro’s face. “Leblanc is very out of the way, though… both from here and from your school.”

“Oh, but the coffee is so good! I can’t help but reroute my commute to get a cup.” Goro gave a wide smile, hiding the heat that flared on his cheeks and ignoring the rather annoying and persistent voice that nagged in the back of his head, repeating things that he very much did not care to hear.

“Why are you making that face?” Sae asked.

“I’m not quite sure what you’re referring to.” Goro pursed his lips. “Did I spill some coffee on my face?”

Sae focused her attention back to her laptop. “Never mind.”

Goro gave an awkward laugh, eyes darting away from Sae. “Ah, I should probably get going… I have a meeting, and then a TV interview later in the day.”

“This is your third interview this week. I’m surprised you still have the time to come here so often.”

“It’s my fourth, actually. The Phantom Thieves’ popularity has had quite the impact on my own,” Goro flashed a smile— his TV smile— getting up from his seat and gathering his things. “I’m trying not to let it impact my school attendance too much, though. I still have entrance exams to worry about.”

Sae shut the lid to her laptop, looking Goro directly in the eyes. “Just remember to do what I would do. Do not show remorse for the Phantom Thieves.”

Goro let out a light laugh. “I have no reasons for remorse, Sae-san.”

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

“Medjed is no different from the Phantom Thieves— both use vigilantism to enforce a self-serving, distorted sense of justice, hiding behind anonymity to…”

Ryuji’s nose crinkled at the sound of Akechi’s voice coming from the small flatscreen TV on the wall of one of his favorite niche ramen joints, throwing his head back towards the ceiling and letting out a long groan. “Can this Akechi guy just give us a break? I swear, I can’t even have a bowl of ramen without seein’ his stupid face on some screen.”

“But at least people are talking about us, right?” Akira gave an awkward smile, eyes completely obscured behind his foggy glasses. People were talking about them, yes, but that did nothing to help the massive lump of anxiety that practically lived in his stomach after the news involving Medjed broke. Navigating the palace of Futaba Sakura was proving to be an incredibly difficult task, and Akira couldn’t think of any other way to handle Medjed. Despite this, he was the Thieves’ leader, so he was the one who had to handle this stress. It was his job to make sure his friends didn’t have these same burdens as him.

“I guess so,” Ryuji sighed. “I dunno, I just get a little worked up, ‘cause I feel like nobody really gets the fact that we’re tryna help them, y’know?”

Akira leaned over, snagging a bamboo shoot from Ryuji’s bowl. “Yeah, it really sucks. I just tell myself that we’re doing this for the good of society, and not for the fame. We’re helping people like us.”

Ryuji let out a huff at the loss of his bamboo shoot, digging his chopsticks into Akira’s bowl and stealing a cluster of corn. “Yeah, I mean, you helped me so much, so it’s only fair to return the favor— to you, ‘n everyone else who has to deal with these sh*tty adults, like Ann and Yusuke.” He tossed the corn into his mouth. “The anonymity thing does suck a little, though. Like, imagine how many girls we could pick up if they knew we were Phantom Thieves?”

Akira let out a little laugh at the thought of Crow, who knew full well that he was a Phantom Thief, that fact doing nothing to help Akira in his multiple efforts to ask him out. In fact, it may have even been a detriment. Crow made it very clear that he was interested in someone else, and unless he happened to run into another one of the Thieves in their everyday lives— maybe Yusuke, Akira mused, as Crow seemed very invested in his own appearance and aesthetics— whoever Crow was interested in was very much not a Phantom Thief. He wondered how difficult it would be to hunt Crow down as Akira Kurusu and see if he’d be able to seduce him himself.

Nearly impossible, he thought, given that some of the closest leads they had were Toranosuke Yoshida, the President of the United States, and Goro Akechi. Yoshida didn’t have that edge to him, the bit of venom in his voice and the ruthless look in his eyes. Akira didn’t think he had to explain why there was a next-to-nothing chance of the President of the United States being Crow. Goro Akechi— the last of the bunch of names the Thieves had listed down that held any significance to Akira— was a very interesting pick. He had that edge to him— Akira saw how Akechi scoffed at him after their confrontation in front of the bathhouse, and the way his hands gripped his chopsticks, almost shaking as he bombarded Akira with questions about justice and retribution at the food stand in Kichijoji. There was a look in his eyes, something deep and desolate and resentful, that he wore on the rare occasions that his father came up. Akira thought about the way Ryuji roared with laughter at even the suggestion that Akechi and Crow could be one in the same. It was inconceivable to the other Thieves, and as much as Akira wished he was capable of feeling the same way, he simply couldn’t.

Ryuji pursed his lips for a moment, squinting at Akira like he was waiting for a response, before his eyes went wide in shock. “Wait! I’m sorry, dude. That question was so freakin’ insensitive.”

Ryuji’s apology hit Akira like a slap to the face, completely derailing his thoughts. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, um,” Ryuji scratched at the back of his neck, letting out a quick huff. “Ann told me that you’ve got your eyes on someone already— which is totally fine. I mean, I never really brought it up ‘cause you’re my best friend, so I thought you’d say somethin’ when you were ready, y’know?”

Akira’s face was so hot that he wasn’t sure if it was the steam from the ramen fogging his glasses or the heat from his cheeks. “What did Ann say, exactly?”

“Oh, it wasn’t anythin’ malicious— you know Ann’s nothing like that,” said Ryuji. “She was tryna recruit me to be a wingman for you.” His eyes shot down to his ramen bowl, where Akira’s chopsticks were nabbing at a slice of egg. He swatted the intrusion away with his own chopsticks. “Oi! Hands off my egg! That’s too far!”

“Heh, sorry. I couldn’t help myself,” Akira grinned, returning back to his bowl empty handed. “I’ll tell you one day— when I’m ready. It’s just… a bit embarrassing, honestly.”

“You don’t gotta be embarrassed around me— I promise, unless you’ve got a thing for, like, Akechi or somethin’. If that was the case, we would need to have a serious intervention.” Ryuji said with a snort, before shooting his head towards Akira and staring at him with gaping eyes. “Wait, it’s not Yusuke, is it?”

“You’re the second person to suggest that,” Akira pouted.

“I dunno, it’s just that he keeps talkin’ about getting you to model nude for him.”

“I offered one time, trying to be nice, and this is what happens,” Akira grumbled, poking at a carrot.

“Look, I won’t push, but I’m here if you need a wingman,” Ryuji grinned, lightly knocking into Akira’s arm with his fist. His chopsticks swooped into his own bowl, plucking his egg out of its bed of noodles and placing it into Akira’s bowl. “Here’s my egg to show that I really mean it.”

Akira’s eyes darted down to the egg— soft yolk, whites tinted a slight yellow from the broth— the highest of honors. “Your egg… you really want me to have it?”

“Yeah, man. It’s yours.”

He wished he could tell Ryuji everything— Crow’s venom, his intellect, his habit of making everything competitive. Their very first competition, where Akira had him pinned against a wall, and their most recent, where Crow rejected him. Maybe he would omit the… disorientating nature of his thoughts about Akechi, but it would be alleviating to be able to open up about Crow.

Maybe he could say something. Not everything, but something.

“If I’m being honest…” Akira sighed, poking at his egg, “I tried asking them out a few days ago, and…”

“No way, dude! How’d it go?” Ryuji asked with a grin, which immediately fell off his face the second he saw the deep scowl that Akira’s mouth was drooping in. “Aw wait. I’m sorry, man.”

“It’s… fine. It’s not like it would’ve worked out, anyway.”

Akira wasn’t sure what he wanted from Crow, exactly, because he was fully aware of how unsustainable a romantic relationship would be— both because their current dynamic was tied to the Metaverse, and because they don’t even know each other’s names, nor did they have any intent to share that information any time soon. Maybe there was a part of him that thought that if he got to know more about Crow, then they could build something together. Or maybe he was hoping that the thrill of his conversations with Crow, and their competitions, and their rivalry, could carry onto something else. The rush of a secret, fleeting fling, something that was kept between him and Crow and nobody else, showing that kind of vulnerability to someone who could very much want him dead.

Maybe Ryuji needed to have an intervention with him about Crow, not Akechi.

Akira’s brows were knit tightly together, eyes trained on his ramen as he poked at his food with his chopsticks. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it hurts a lot. I haven’t really let myself think about it until now, and just,” he let out a bitter laugh, the very essence of self pity, “God. I don’t know what I was expecting, but hearing them say that there was someone else was probably the worst answer I could’ve gotten.”

He thought back to his dinner with Akechi and Morgana at the sushi restaurant, where Morgana’s playful jabs about Akira’s interest in Crow led to Akechi getting so hurt that he looked like a dog left in the rain, barely even able to eat his food. Akechi clearly tried to say something to Akira back at his apartment before blurting out an excuse about wanting to arm wrestle, and Akira wondered if that very interaction at the sushi restaurant was the thing that stopped him. He wasn’t quite sure what response he would give to Akechi if he ever gained the confidence to properly ask him out, and that uncertainty scared him.

“Well, whoever it is is really missin’ out on a good catch,” Ryuji grinned. “I bet that whoever else they’ve got their eyes on isn’t even half as good as you.”

Akira’s face formed a soft smile. “Yeah…” He pursed his lips. “I’m confused about a lot right now, and I think there could be… someone else I’m interested in, too. They haven’t really done the best job at hiding the fact that they’re into me, which is pretty funny since they seem to hide everything else about themselves from me. I’m not really sure if I feel the same way. I was pretty adamant that I wasn't into them, but I don’t think I’m as against the idea as I was a few weeks ago.” The words were practically spilling out of Akira now, things that he hadn't even realized about himself until now.

“Well, why don’t you ask ‘em out?” Ryuji asked.

Akira’s mind pictured the humiliating, degrading experience of asking Goro Akechi out on a date. He knew that women were very fond of Akechi, and he has mentioned being asked out many times, but he didn’t think Akechi had ever been asked out by someone that he genuinely reciprocated those feelings for.

The difference was that Akira wasn’t another one of Akechi’s fans. He saw Akechi as more than his TV personality, and Akechi had even subtly admitted this through his insistence on wanting to find meaning out of his relationships.

“I think I’ll wait to see if they ask me out. I’m… not even sure if I’d say yes. Like, I know I was already friendzoned by the person I'm really into, but I still don’t feel any closure. It would feel weird to just move on, y’know?” Akira was certain that Ryuji put some kind of truth serum in his egg, because there was no other explanation as to why Akira was running his mouth like this.

“Mhm…” Ryuji’s mouth was stuffed with noodles. “Just do what you think is right. Don’t push yourself into somethin’ you’re not ready for.” He picked a carrot wedge from Akira’s bowl. “If they make you happy, ‘n you make them happy, then I’m sure it’ll work out.”

Akira left this conversation more confused than he was before it started.

Out of the station and down the road. Through the lobby, packed up the elevator, and down the hall. Sixth floor, first door to the left.

Akechi’s apartment looked untouched since Akira had last visited. The same pile of tapes was sitting next to the VHS player, the remote was on its same spot on the coffee table, right next to a vanilla-scented candle, and Akira was sure that if he squinted hard enough, he’d be able to see his butt imprint still morphed into Akechi’s couch.

Akechi, however, did not look the same, though this fact would be completely invisible to the untrained eye. His top collar button was undone, with his tie completely discarded. His pants were slightly rolled at the ankles, leading Akira to wonder if they were so meticulously fitted that Akechi got his pants tailored to specifically to cater to his height with shoes on, accounting for the fact that his pants would be the most minute centimeter too long if he were to wear them barefoot.

Akira’s eyes paused at Akech’a feet, where his usual dress socks were traded for a pair of Featherman socks. “One Red sock and one Black sock. You’re not very subtle.”

“They actually came in a set with the rest of the rangers, but I wear my Black and Red socks the most.” Akechi was shuffling through his kitchen cabinets, lining up a row of cooking equipment. “I don’t think I’ve worn my Yellow Owl pair a single time. He’s just a bit… immature for my tastes.”

Akira remembered his own grudge against Yellow Owl, the time he specifically declared a lifelong feud between the two. “Yellow Owl is one of my favorites, actually.”

Akechi’s eye twitched. “Ah… remind me to give you my Yellow pair, then. They’d have far better use with you than they have just sitting in my dresser drawer.”

Akira very much would not be reminding Akechi to gift him such a cursed relic. “What if I told you that I shipped Yellow Owl with Black Condor?”

A sharp clattering noise filled the room as Akechi dropped the metal spoon in his hand. “I would… respect your opinion.” Akechi’s voice had the slightest crack to it, like his words were being forced from his mouth by gunpoint. “Though I highly disagree that they’d make a good pair.”

“Yeah, but have you seen the way that Black looks at Yellow?”

“They actually have the least amount of interactions with each other out of all the other rangers across the series,” Akechi started, voice filled with so much surety that Akira wondered if Akechi has had this exact conversation before. “They are practically coworkers. Black and Red have a much more interesting dynamic, especially in the older series.” Akechi bent down to his lower cabinets, picking up a large bag of uncooked rice and placing it on the kitchen island.

Akira, sitting on a stool on the other side of the island, poked at the bag with his finger. “Did you… ask me to come over because you wanted me to cook for you?” His eyes dragged along the wide array of kitchen equipment lined across Akechi’s counter: several pans, a rice cooker, two pots, and a cutting board.

“Oh… I was hoping we could cook together, actually.” He plugged the rice cooker into an outlet. “I tend to eat out a lot because I never learned how to cook. I was hoping you could teach me.”

Akira’s eyes darted over to Akechi’s fridge, the door propped open as Akechi sifted through the shelves. On the door was the drawing that Akira and Yusuke had made, stuck to the fridge with a red magnet.

“You’re lucky that I like cooking,” Akira huffed. “What’s on the menu?”

Akechi was placing an arrangement of vegetables next to the rice. “Rice, veggies and tuna— because I know how much Morgana likes tuna. I was hoping to use the leftovers from tonight for bento. We could shred the extra tuna to make onigiri.”

“Dinner and lunch? May as well ask me to become your private chef at this point.”

Akechi gave a light laugh, apparently entertained by the idea of Akira living with him to become a full-time barista. “Ah, it would be quite amusing to have you as a private chef.” He grabbed a pepper, running it under the sink. “I think having a nice bento would incentivize me to eat lunch. I’m quite forgetful about meals, and when I do manage to remember to eat at school, I usually just buy a single apple.”

Akira pictured Akechi in class, fueled by nothing but his worsening caffeine addiction. Now that he thought about it, Akechi really didn’t have a big appetite. Though they went out for food fairly often, Akechi usually picked at an order of vegetables and politely declined Akira’s offers to share his food. Even the last time they went out, at the food stands in Kichijoji, Akechi only had a small pork bun and a few bites of scallion pancake.

Akira rolled an onion between his palms. “I should probably cook the protein, so do you think you could prep the rice and veggies?”

After giving Akechi a quick rundown of the cooking instructions, the light simmer of the rice cooker filled the room as Akira stirred a dish of sauces and oils, swatting Morgana’s greedy paws away from the slab of raw tuna. Akira’s eyes darted over towards Akechi, who stood next to him, hair tied up and knife in hand as he chopped away at an onion. His face was contorted into a deep scowl, wiping his cheeks with his hands as tears prodded from his eyes.

“Ooh, the onion is making you cry,” Akira teased, watching the way Akechi’s mouth drooped into a harsher scowl.

“It stings,” Akechi said between eye rubs. “Do you mind lending me a hand?”

“With the onions, or with your face?”

Akechi’s mouth formed a straight line. “The onions. I’m more than capable of handling my face.”

Akira lingered behind Akechi, peering over his shoulder. “Your chopping is sloppy. You want to cut them into even pieces.”

“I can barely see in front of me. How are your eyes not stinging right now?”

“I guess my body’s used to it.” Akira leaned in closer. “Stop chopping for a sec.”

Akechi put the knife down, hands still lingering around the onion. Akira’s hands moved towards the vegetable, dragging his finger along its length. “So, you’ll want to cut the onion this way, since we’re cutting it into slices, not dicing it.” His arm brushed along Akechi’s milky smooth skin, which was raised into small goosebumps. Akechi’s breath hitched slightly.

In this moment, Akira realized had two options: he could step away, or he could have a bit of fun.

Akira’s hand drifted towards the left side of the cutting board, brushing Akechi’s knuckles with his palm as his fingers pressed into the vivid purple surface of the onion. Akechi’s face pinkened, eyes darting away and mouth forming the same firm line as earlier.

“Hold the onion like this, just to make sure you don’t cut your fingers.” His right hand shifted towards the other side of the onion, once again going out of his way to brush Akechi’s hand with his palm. “Cut with a motion like this…” He mimicked a cutting motion, making sure to graze Akechi’s hand with each movement. “Does that make sense?”

Akechi’s voice faltered. “Y-Yes, I understand.”

Akira pulled away, watching carefully as Akechi’s chest fell with a deep sigh, brushing his bangs out of his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as he mumbled something to himself. When he seemed to compose himself, back straightening and eyes regaining focus, his hand lingered towards the knife, positioning his other hand above the onion.

“Oh, wait,” said Akira, very much not done with Akechi, “I forgot that you’re left-handed. Let me show you again.” He wrapped his arms around Akechi, fingers curling around the chapped skin of the detective’s hands as he positioned them over the onion. Akechi’s muscles completely froze under Akira's light grip, Akira feeling nothing but the sensation of the other boy's pulse hammering in his wrist.

Akechi gently tugged away from Akira’s grasp, using his freed hands to obscure his mouth. Akira could tell by the look of his eyes, wide and surrounded by the dusting of red on his cheeks, that he was very distressed.

“If you don’t mind, I— I need to excuse myself,” he said, scurrying away to the bathroom and shutting the door with a small click of a lock being twisted on.

Morgana jumped onto the counter, knowing exceedingly well that if Akechi were in the room, he would shoo his dirty paws off of the surface where he cooks his food. His tail was whipping behind him curiously as he looked from Akechi’s self-imposed bathroom prison to Akira. “You broke him.”

Akira was grinning to himself. “I know.”

Morgana’s blue eyes were studying Akira closely, like he was reading into the rather obvious tension in the room. “You and Akechi… have been getting a bit close lately, wouldn’t you say?”

Morgana definitely knew. He followed Akira nearly everywhere, after all. He was giving Akira an opening to tell Morgana himself, but didn’t seem like he had any intentions to pry like he did with the situation with Crow. He wondered if Morgana knew better than him, because Akira was rather confused about his feelings towards Akechi right now, and his infatuation with Crow that had been torn up and spit on was doing nothing to help him process his conflicting feelings about the detective.

It was like the world’s most miserable love triangle. The only thing that could make this situation even more hilarious would be if the person that Crow had mentioned being interested in, the reason he denied Joker’s confession, was Akechi. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility— Akechi was a celebrity and the object of many people’s affections— but Akechi seemed too courteous for Crow’s interest. Crow spoke very formally, and despite his venom, was rather polite, but Akechi lacked Crow’s edge— at least, to most people, Akechi lacked that edge. Akira was sure that he was one of the only people who truly witnessed that side of Akechi, no matter how hard he tried to hide it under layers of his well-mannered nature.

Akira leaned against the counter, giving Morgana a quick scratch on the head. “Yep.”

Akira had a family to support. At least, that’s what he told himself when he applied for four part time jobs— Morgana was his responsibility, and Yusuke was slowly crawling his way onto Akira’s list of dependents with how much of his paycheck went straight to Yusuke’s stomach.

His cashiering gig at Triple 7 was probably the most normal out of all his jobs. The beef bowl shop was comically understaffed, and Akira found himself more often than not ignoring his boss’ text messages practically pleading for him to pick up an extra shift. The flower shop had a nice, slow pace, though he definitely needed Morgana’s help when it came to arranging bouquets. Crossroads— well, Crossroads was definitely unique. No doubt his favorite of the bunch, but one he most certainly didn’t boast about, because the last thing he needed was for his friends to know that he worked at a drag bar.

Triple 7 could be very slow at times, though it was far more boring than the flower shop, and he didn’t even have the benefit of Morgana’s company. Poor Morgana was shunned to the alleyway next to the convenience store, his only method of communication being a small window that he occasionally peeped through.

At the very least, he had Ryuji’s company today, even if it was just for the mere few minutes they had together while Akira scanned his clump of snacks.

“Hey, man!” Ryuji chirped, placing a few snacks by the register. “Since I found out you worked here, I’ve been goin’ outta my way to stop by after my runs.”

Akira grabbed Ryuji’s bag of chips from the counter. “It’s been so slow today— like, mind numbing.” The irritating beep of the register went off as he scanned the snacks, reminding Akira of all the little elements of retail that piled on top of each other to make the most miserable experience concocted by man.

“I could linger around for a few more minutes if you need a distraction,” said Ryuji, plucking a protein bar from the display to his right and plopping it on the top of his snack pile.

“Eh, I’m clocking out in ten minutes anyway,” Akira tossed the chip bag back onto the counter, moving to scan the protein bar.

“Dude, don’t take out your work woes on my chips,” Ryuji pouted.

“Sorry, bad habit.” Akira made a show out of placing the protein bar on the counter like it was the finest china that Tokyo had to offer, face raising into a grin when Ryuji started to laugh.

The printer spit out a receipt, infuriating mechanical screech blending with the chime of the door alerting Akira that another customer entered the store.

From the corner of his eye, he could already detect the ashy brown hair, shiny silver briefcase, and leather gloves that were all too familiar to him by now. He very much was not in the mood to deal with Akechi. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Akechi, but he would be the biggest liar in the world if he said that Akechi wasn’t a handful.

“Kurusu-kun? You work here?” Akechi’s voice called out, voice dripping with that TV charisma.

Ryuji’s face flashed with about a dozen different emotions, none of which were positive, ending in a wince that looked as if he just banged his toe onto something very blunt. “Just one place. Can I go to one place without seein’ his face somewhere? Next thing you know, they’ll start plasterin’ him on my favorite protein shakes.” His voice was only loud enough to be heard by Akira— at least Akira hoped.

Akechi made a quick trip to the snack aisle and approached the register with his prey— a single baggie of trail mix. Ryuji stepped to the side, crumpling his receipt and stuffing it into his pocket.

“Oh, you must be Sakamoto-kun! I’ve heard a lot about you.” Akechi smiled his usual smile, closed eyes and teeth shining.

“Uh huh, I’ve been hearin’ about you too.” Ryuji fidgeted with his soda, looking very much like he wanted to leave.

“From Kurusu-kun?”

“Nah. I mean, sometimes I guess. Mostly from TV, though.”

Akechi looked like he wanted to interrogate Ryuji with questions about what exactly, word for word, Akira had said about him, and the frequency in which Akechi is brought up in conversations, and if Ryuji is perhaps willing to spill some of Akira’s deepest secrets that Akechi could use to investigate him further, because he seemed to really like to probe Akira about the most personal aspects of his life.

Instead, he fell back into his smile. “You definitely aren’t the first. It seems that a lot of people have been watching my TV appearances.”

Ryuji rolled his eyes at Akechi’s rather politely worded brag. “Yep. Anyway, I’ve gotta head out. I’ve got, um, stuff to do. Bye, ‘Kira!”

When the chime of the door went off, alerting them that Ryuji had left, Akechi leaned onto the counter, smile toning down exponentially. “You have very interesting friends,” he said.

“Mhmm,” Akira said, scanning the trail mix. “Ryuji’s my best friend, actually.”

“And you’re friends with Madarame’s former pupil if my memory serves me.” Akechi’s face flashed with that look— the detective look, like he was standing in front of a wild conspiracy board filled with old polaroids and newspaper clippings connected by a system of red string.

“What’s with the look?” Akira asked, tossing the trail mix into a baggie and handing it to Akechi.

“Ah, it’s nothing,” Akechi said, happily accepting the bag. The same smile he flashed at Ryuji a mere few minutes ago was back on his face, like a very bothersome mite infestation that managed to constantly weasel its way back into Akira’s life. “I should be heading out now. I have quite the busy evening ahead of me. It was nice running into you, as always.”

“While you’re out doing your exciting detective work, please think of those of us who are less fortunate and stuck with soul destroying retail jobs.”

Akechi hid his mouth behind his hand, shoulders trembling as he choked back a laugh. “I promise I don’t have anything that interesting on my plate today. I’m just filing paperwork.”

“Better than being stuck behind a register all day.”

Akechi gave a polite farewell, walking out the door as he swung his briefcase at his side. Akira glanced at his phone, which happily informed him that he only had three minutes of his shift left. Three minutes too long, Akira thought, as just one more minute looking at the same snack display set in a tidy row on the shelves would be enough to make him snap. Maybe his boss wouldn’t mind if he clocked out a few minutes early— or maybe he could just change out of his uniform really slowly.

As if on cue, a rustling sound piped through the window, Akira’s sign that Morgana had returned from whatever business he had in Shibuya. Probably begging random pedestrians for food, or digging through the trash of some sushi restaurant. Morgana acted like he was above hunting for food scraps, claiming that that was something that cats did, and he wasn't a cat, thank you very much, but Akira has caught him with his face in used take away boxes of fish on several occasions. He gave a quick gesture to his supervisor that he was leaving and exited his retail prison, making a quick turn for the street and peering his head into the rather gross alleyway. Old food wrappers, cigarette butts, and a row of rusty dumpsters. He really wasn’t sure how Morgana tolerated spending Akira’s entire shifts here.

“Psst,” Akira called.

This was usually Morgana’s cue to jump into Akira’s bag, but he seemed to be acting stubborn, or maybe he was busy poking at a discarded tray of salmon, because he didn’t even bother to signal that he needed an extra minute.

Akira took a few steps closer into the murky alleyway, ignoring the cold and very wet puddle that he managed to step in, and pretending he couldn’t feel whatever nasty liquid was spilled onto the ground soaking into his socks.

As he went deeper and deeper into the alley, the strangely familiar sense that his consciousness was floating, drifting through a sea of calm waters, started prodding at his brain. There was a tingling feeling pricking at the back of his neck, trailing down his spine and spreading into his skull. His body gave a few hard blinks without his brain’s command, and when he opened his eyes, his gaze immediately fell on the giant ferris wheel towering over him, adorned with colorful lights, spinning around under the dark pink sky.

He looked down at his hands. Bright red gloves, dark cuffs, and thick black sleeves. He was in the Metaverse. Whoever’s palace this was clearly saw him as a threat.

He looked back up at the ferris wheel, this time locating a figure standing off to the distance, head propped up at the sight in front of them. Joker took a few steps closer, eyes squinting in an attempt to discern if the figure was some type of shadow, or maybe a palace ruler, or anything that could clue him as to where he was. The second his foot touched the ground, the heel of his boot striking the stone path, the figure’s head whipped around.

Their eyes met with Joker’s, slowly growing wide as their mouth fell agape like Joker was some kind of serial killer brandishing a knife.

“W-who are you?”

Joker ambled a bit closer, the figure’s features becoming much more clear. A mop of shaggy brown hair, delicate features, and leather gloves. “You’re Goro Akechi.”

This has already happened before. Back in Kamoshida’s palace, when his Nav app unexpectedly activated and brought him to a sinister looking castle that was erected where his school should be. Ann was accidentally transported to this palace when Akira and Ryuji had activated the app after school.

Despite the Thieves slowly crawling up the list of Tokyo’s most wanted, they’d found comfort in the fact that the Metaverse made it near impossible for law enforcement to discern their methods and identities. Now Goro Akechi was standing in front of him in the middle of the Metaverse, eyes gaping at his Phantom Thief costume.

“I know who I am. Who are you, and what is this place?” Akechi asked.

Joker felt a bit guilty, because he knew that Akechi was the very last person that he should be detailing the inner workings of the Metaverse to, but the poor guy was probably scared. Joker was terrified the first time he wandered into the Metaverse and got stuffed away in some cell, a half-nude version of his gym teacher threatening to execute him. It wasn’t until he awakened his Persona that he felt emboldened, willingly returning back to the palace a second time.

This was bad. Very, very bad. Akechi could awaken a Persona.

“Let’s get you out of here. It isn’t safe,” Joker said.

“If you aren’t willing to tell me anything,” Akechi turned around, eyes scanning the horizon, until he paused at a figure that was standing outside of the entrance of the ferris wheel, “I’ll just ask them.”

Before Joker had a chance to protest, Akechi was already walking on the yellow path towards the ferris wheel, briefcase in hand.

Akechi wasn’t stupid. Joker knew very well that he was nothing close to stupid. Akechi knew how dangerous this was, which was exactly why he was doing it— so Joker would stop him. And Joker was easily falling into that trap, because he really had no other options unless he wanted to see Akechi’s face get melted off by a shadow.

Joker did a quick jog up to Akechi, firmly placing his hand on his shoulder, but Akechi simply brushed it away and kept walking until he stood in front of the figure guarding the ferris wheel. It was oddly pixelated, like if Joker were to touch it, the sharp edges would cut through his gloves and pierce his skin. He stepped between Akechi and the guard.

The guard looked at him with a dark gaze, scanning his costume. “We don’t serve Phantom Thieves.”

Joker swore he saw something in Akechi’s eyes glisten at the revelation that he was speaking with the leader of the Phantom Thieves. Akechi stepped aside, giving a small wave and flashing his TV smile. “Oh, no worries! He’s with me.”

The guard paused for a second like it was buffering, before swiftly opening the door to one of the ferris wheel capsules. “Apologies, Akechi-san.”

Without hesitation, Akechi stepped inside the capsule, which forced Joker to follow him. The guard shut the door behind them and pulled a large lever, slowly raising them into the air.

“Not how I expected to spend my evening, but this is nice,” Akechi said, bringing his briefcase to his lap and opening the clasps. “So you’re part of the Phantom Thieves. The leader, I assume?”

Joker breathed out an awkward laugh. “If that’s what the weird pixelated guy wants to assume.” Akechi’s lack of fear about wandering into the Metaverse, especially when explicitly warned that it was dangerous, was rather off-putting.

Akechi popped open the top of his briefcase. Inside sat a laptop, a folder that was neatly labeled with his name, a cosmetics bag, the pack of trail mix he bought at Triple 7, and a bento box. He grabbed the bento box and folded his briefcase shut.

“I don’t intend on interrogating you further. I think I got all the information I needed from that guard.”

Joker released a deep sigh that he didn’t even know he was holding. That at least erased one of his laundry list of problems. At the top of the list, written in bold red, underlined, circled, and starred, was to make sure that Akechi didn’t die, and to definitely make sure he didn’t awaken a Persona.

“You know, you’ve been a huge pain in the ass. It feels like my entire life is revolving around the case against you.” Akechi’s words were scathing, but his face was still plastered with his polite TV smile. He plucked a vegetable from his bento, holding it between chopsticks. “Would you like a grilled onion?”

It was the same onion from last night when he cooked dinner with Akechi. He’d manage to rile Akechi up enough to make him a stuttering mess, face so red that he asked to excuse himself to the bathroom to recompose. Now Akechi was sitting across from him, his Detective Prince personality shielding any real emotions that he very much did not want to convey. Joker could hear the malice behind his words, but he didn’t feel it, because they were dripping with enough courtesy that Joker was expecting him to hold the door open for him, or offer to carry his things while he helped him cross the street.

If he was going to be subjected to Akechi’s TV personality, he may as well have fun with it. He let Akechi place the onion in his hand, tossing it into his mouth. “Wow! This is so good! Did you make it yourself?”

“Ah, my fr—” he paused. “Someone I know actually helped me make it.”

“Your friend helped you?” Joker asked, waggling his eyebrows— though he was sure Akechi couldn’t see the gesture under his mask.

Akechi’s face reddened. “He's not a friend. It’s just somebody I know.”

“Uh huh. Well that somebody seems to care enough about you to make sure you’re eating well.”

Akechi poked at his onigiri. “Is that so?”

Joker wondered if Akechi was aware that he did genuinely care for him. Akechi grew up without a mother, and his father was completely absent from his life. He mentioned that Akira was the only one who has ever been to his apartment, or Jazz Jin, or Penguin Sniper. The people around him only seemed to care for his TV personality, and maybe Akechi was catering to that by playing it up so aggressively. After his mother passed, he probably had nobody in his life who had ever truly cared about him.

The ferris wheel stopped at the very top, the sky’s pink hues pouring through the window of their capsule. The view below them was filled with figures that were throwing kicks and punches at each other, with strange glowing projectiles and campy costumes. Maybe the palace was based on a fighting game, being right next to Shibuya’s arcade.

Akechi was still poking at his food, mouth in a scowl that he didn’t seem to care about hiding. His face was still red, though the pink hues from outside only made his cheeks look redder.

Joker leaned closer to Akechi, face lifting into a gentle smile. “Hey, what’s with the pout?”

Akechi’s eyes darted to the side, looking out the window. “I’m just very confused. Kur— I mean, my friend—” he said the word friend like it was a swear word, “told me a few weeks ago that there was someone else he was interested in. I don’t understand why he insists on my company if that’s the case.”

Akechi looked rather upset at the sushi restaurant those few weeks ago— so upset that he wasn’t even able to eat his food. He hadn’t brought the conversation up since, but Joker wondered if it had been eating away at him this entire time.

“Happens to the best of us,” Joker sighed, kicking his feet up next to Akechi. “I went through the same thing a few days ago.”

Something flashed over Akechi’s eyes, though Joker couldn’t pinpoint what exactly it was. Maybe it was recognition, having also been rejected fairly recently. “I promise it doesn’t get any better," Akechi grumbled.

Joker choked out a laugh. “Oh, you’re harsh.” He fidgeted with his glove, pulling at the cuff. “What I’m trying to say is that just because there’s someone else doesn’t mean that they don’t care about you too.”

Akechi’s face fell in a deeper scowl. “It still means that there’s someone else that they care about more.”

“Are you the jealous type?”

Akechi’s head shot up, eyes boring into Joker’s with such intensity that Joker wouldn’t be surprised if he was able to see right through his mask, revealing his real identity to Akechi. “What are you insinuating?”

Joker gave Akechi a knowing look, brows scrunched and lips pursed. Akechi simply flared his nostrils and turned towards the window.

He wasn’t sure why Akechi, the prince of hiding his emotions under locked steel doors and throwing away the key, was so readily opening up to Joker of all people about his woes involving Akira. If Akira was the only person that Akechi was willing to somewhat open up to, then he didn’t really have anyone else to talk about the sushi restaurant incident with. Maybe he chose Joker because he knew that his chances of running into him again were next to zero— unless Joker was arrested— and he thought that Joker would have a hard time spreading this information without revealing how exactly obtained it. Nobody would buy a story about Goro Akechi spilling the details of his love life on a ferris wheel guarded by living video game sprites.

The ferris wheel started moving again, and Akechi finally stopped poking at his onigiri, taking a bite out of one of the balls. Joker remembered how good the tuna from yesterday was and wanted so badly to swipe the food from between Akechi’s chopsticks and shove it in his own mouth. He hoped that the intense desperation that he was staring at Akechi’s bento with was enough to signal him to offer a mere morsel of onigiri, but Akechi simply looked at Akira with his brow knitted and hugged his bento box closer to his body.

“Not even a bite?” Joker asked.

Akechi made the look he always had when he wanted to say something but simply chose to keep his mouth shut to maintain his unnervingly persistent effort to open up to people in the least amount possible— mouth in a firm line, eyes darted away.

“C’mon, say what you wanna say,” Joker teased, leaning against the seat of the capsule like he was ready to make himself comfortable and sit there all day until Akechi spat out his feelings. “It’s not good to keep things to yourself all the time.”

“I’m not listening to the leader of an anonymous criminal group preach to me about keeping secrets.” Despite Akechi refusing to open up, he was no longer hiding his emotions, brows pinched into a rather angry looking expression and lips twitching.

Joker wanted to say something about how there was a difference in anonymity to protect one’s identity, and turning one’s most basic human emotions into a cryptic secret that takes only those who were the most well versed in analyzing Akechi’s body language to decode— but it wasn't all that different, was it? Joker’s secret identity protected him, and Akechi must view his own secrecy as a form of protection. He thought back to Akechi’s childhood, which has slowly been drip fed to him through stories that were often cut short by his Detective Prince persona, and anecdotes that seemed too specific to be made up on a whim. There was a reason he was so dishonest about his feelings, and a reason why he was so insistent on portraying himself as idealized as he came across on TV.

Akechi was looking him in the eyes now, pupils filled with the same spark that ignited in Crow’s eyes so frequently. “I know you think you’re benefiting society, but I don’t think you realize how much harm vigilantism holds. It’s a mockery of our justice system.”

“If the justice system didn’t want to be mocked, it should have considered that before it let people like Suguru Kamoshida slip away free for so long.”

The anger in Akechi’s eyes blazed deeper, though something in Joker thought that the anger wasn’t directed at the Phantom Thieves this time. He wondered if political corruption was some kind of personal trigger for Akechi.

Akechi pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a bitter laugh. “You know, you’re one of the only people who ever really offered a challenge for me. I’ve been working to the bone lately, but I must say, I’m enjoying every second of it.”

The ferris wheel came to a halt, the guard opening the door with a click and motioning for the pair to come out.

Akechi stepped out of the capsule, whhipping around to face Joker. “Do you mind escorting me out of this… world? I’m a bit late for work.”

Joker lead Akechi to the entrance of the palace, feeling like some sort of bodyguard for the celebrity, pulling out his phone and swiping over to the Nav app. Akechi was watching his movements carefully. His Detective Prince mask was back up, eyes sparkling with curiosity as his gaze traced over Joker’s quick fingers.

“Before I leave, I’d like to thank you for the pleasant evening.” Pleasant. That was a very creative word choice for the evening, though maybe Akechi did enjoy getting to vent his frustrations out directly to Joker’s face rather than over TV, or through Akira. “I’m off to go file some paperwork about your case. The next time we meet, I’m sure it will be in a prison cell, or perhaps an interrogation room.”

Despite the courteous smile that graced Akechi’s lips, his words were coated in a malice that Joker didn’t think he’d ever heard come out of his mouth. Akechi gave a gracious wave before Joker sent him out of the Metaverse, letting out a deep exhale as the tight knot that formed in his shoulders released.

Akechi didn’t die. Akechi didn’t figure out Joker’s identity. Akechi didn’t awaken a Persona. The situation was bad, yes, but it could have been much worse. Now, all he needed to do was wait in the Metaverse for a bit until he was sure that Akechi wasn’t lingering around in that alleyway anymore, waiting for Joker to show up and having his jaw drop onto the ground when he was met face-to-face with Akira.

Joker found his mind wandering to a scenario where Akechi may have awoken a Persona— something that would summon that rebelling spirit within him and provoke him enough to rip that Detective Prince mask off. Other than today, the only time that Akira had really seen Akechi get truly, deeply angry was during those brief mentions of his father. From what he knew about this man— that he so willingly orphaned his own son with no remorse— it wouldn’t surprise him if he had a palace. If Joker had accidentally triggered the Nav to send them to Akechi’s father’s palace instead of this strange pixelated amusem*nt park, things could have played out wildly differently. Being brought to this bizarre, unknown world, and hearing such disgusting things come out of your cognitive father’s mouth… Akechi was already dealing with many issues, as much as he loved to hide it, and Joker really wasn’t sure if Akechi would give into the rage and rebellion, or if he would simply crumble. He could tell that Akechi was hiding a lot of anger in his heart, and that scenario may be the very thing that could make him snap.

He wondered if the idea of tracking down his father and triggering a change of heart had ever occurred to Akechi. While he was vehemently against the methods of the Phantom Thieves, maybe he’d indulged in the thought a few times as a simple fantasy.

Joker lingered around the palace for quite a while, pacing around the entrance and scanning the perimeter in an attempt at some surface-level investigating— the most he could do without potentially endangering himself by wandering into a palace alone— until he was sure that Akechi got bored enough to leave the alleyway. Akechi was persistent, but Joker waited for over an hour, and there had to be a breaking point for even him.

He opened the Nav again, transporting himself back into the dingy alleyway between the arcade and Triple 7. Morgana immediately hissed, backing into a corner before he realized that the strange apparition was just Akira.

“What happened? I’ve been waiting here for over an hour! I was worried!” Morgana said, pawing at Akira’s leg.

“I—” Akira glanced behind himself, his eyes immediately falling onto Akechi, who was in the middle of a hoard of rabid fans. Akira wondered if Akechi truly waited there for over an hour, or if he ended up getting practically trapped by his fans, forced to linger around this alleyway within a prison of Detective Prince fanatics. “We should discuss this somewhere else.”

Akira and Morgana took a brisk walk to one of Shibuya’s other alleyways near Untouchable. He took a few quick glances around the area before squatting down to Morgana’s level. “My Nav app accidentally went off in that alleyway. Akechi got brought in with me.”

Morgana’s ears immediately perked up. “W-What do you mean?” He asked, knowing exactly what Akira meant.

“Akechi found out about the Metaverse.”

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

“Oh, what a shame it is that Goro lost his mother at such a young age. You two really are saints for being willing to take him in.”

Goro remembers the conversation so vividly. Back when he was a child, the hosts of his new foster home conversing with a set of their friends about just how altruistic they were for taking on the burden of providing a home for this poor orphan. He was standing in the room as a group of people gawked at him like he was simply a badge of philanthropy for this family, proof of their pathetic savior complex being put to work. This was his third foster family, after all— it’s not like anyone else wanted him.

The novelty wore itself off eventually, and when this foster family ran out of people to brag about their charity case to, he was simply shipped off to the next family. He would spend the car ride to this new house thinking about what this family would be like— maybe he was another charity case to them, or maybe he would be unsupervised again, completely left to his own devices.

The word family had completely lost any meaning to him by that point. He was birthed out of pure animosity and christened in the blood of his mother, a bastard child who only served as a stain on his father’s reputation, something that needed to be scrubbed away of any ties to him.

There was a point where he stopped trying to play hero, stopped fooling himself into thinking that anyone truly wanted him around, and decided that maybe the most productive way to spend his bastardized existence was to ruin the man who created this very stain in the first place.

If there was one thing that Goro learned from Joker during his failed patrol of the IT company president’s palace, it was that he was just like Goro. A mere puppet, a tool for Shido’s usage and disposal. Nothing he did mattered— his savior complex, his own views of justice, his friends. He was a mere ticking clock, a slab of meat with an expiration date that was drawing dangerously close.

It was hilarious how shallow Shido’s relationships were. Kunikazu Okumura was one of Shido’s primary affiliates, yet Crow was met with immediate hostility upon entering his palace. Okumura had berated him with questions about Shido’s intentions, leading to a biometric door being put in place out of sheer mistrust of the man. The other palace that Crow had been to, belonging to the president of the biggest IT company in Japan, who was one of the very few people who managed to crawl their way into Shido’s closest circle, seemed to have a certain level of trust for Shido. At least, Goro assumed as much, as he arrived to his palace in his school uniform, unlike Joker, who was wearing his usual Phantom Thief outfit. Despite this man having so much trust in Shido, Goro knew that at the end of the day, he was as disposable as any other one of Shido’s affiliates. There was a reason why Shido asked Goro to patrol this palace. These people held no meaning to Shido outside of their usefulness. He trusted none of them.

Was his relationship to Joker any different?

Joker was sitting across from Crow atop one of Mementos’ parked subway cars, indulging himself in one of the many snacks thrown around the roof while he chatted happily about a new Persona he fused, though Crow found it impossible to focus on the words coming from his mouth. The area between Joker’s temples was quite the distraction. He couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to place his pistol in that area, firm enough to press into Joker’s skin as he looked up at him with fearful eyes— or maybe he’d have that grin, like he was challenging Crow to pull the trigger.

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t excited for the scene to play out. The pounding in his chest, that lightheaded feeling that pooled in his brain every time he thought about it was pure, giddy excitement, he told himself. He hated Joker, after all. After Joker was killed, the media would report it as a suicide. Goro would have to wipe the blood off his hands, and then maybe he’d head over to Leblanc like nothing happened, like he didn’t just kill someone in cold blood. It’s not like he hasn’t done it before, spending casual nights with Akira after a day raiding palaces, Leblanc’s TV in the background as a news story about a car accident killing three played from its fuzzy speakers. There was no reason why this had to be any different.

There was a voice in the back of his head that asked what would happen if Akira saw Joker’s blood on Goro’s hands this time. Maybe he would push Goro away, as any rational person would do. He would be deemed undesirable by Akira too. With Joker dead, he would be completely alone again. Maybe it was better that way, without these distracting thoughts of Akira getting in the way of his revenge plan against Shido. That was more important, after all. There was nothing fulfilling about these frivolous connections, he told himself. He’d dedicated his life to this plan. There was no turning back now.

It’s not like his connection with Joker was genuine. It was built on a foundation of lies. He was simply meeting with Joker for the purpose of collecting intel. That’s why they met up so often, and that’s why he was sitting here, listening to Joker talk his mind as he threw handfuls of chips in his mouth. Joker was nothing more than an animated corpse, someone that was destined to die as he was pulled along on Shido’s strings into his shallow, bullet-ridden grave.

There was something in the back of Crow’s head that cooed petty nonsense about envy, and about how he almost wished he could have Joker for himself since Shido wanted him so badly. The thought of Shido’s dirty hands clutching the bundle of Joker’s puppet strings made Crow feel rather ill.

Except Shido’s hands weren’t dirty. Metaphorically, yes, but they weren’t coated in blood like Goro’s were. Shido’s hands were clean— pristine, even. He was slated to be Japan’s hero, his hands had to be clean. It were the people like Goro, those undesirable, unwanted people who had to do all the dirty work, who had to sit in this drab, dirty subway station and act like everything was normal while he was staring this walking corpse in the eyes, watching him talk and laugh and eat and blink and breathe, when his blood would be splattered on his hands in a mere few months. He had to act like this was normal, and everything was normal, and that was exactly what he was doing. He was sitting across from Joker, picking away at a bun while he nodded along to Joker’s stories. He was compliant. Joker hadn’t even bothered to come up with an excuse to spend their training time sitting on top of an empty subway car— no mentions of being tired, or complaints of an injured leg. They were simply talking, like acquaintances. Crow didn’t understand why this was, but he was compliant regardless.

Joker’s hand was shuffling through his snacks, tossing aside candies and cookies and chips until he settled on a bag of taiyaki. He ripped the snack in half, eyeballing its flaky insides. “Oh, the filling is red bean paste. I was hoping for custard.” He shoved the other half into Crow’s hands. “You get the head, because I always feel guilty when I have to bite its face off.”

Crow pouted, bringing the fish-shaped cake to his face. Its eyes were empty, and its mouth was downturned into a frown. There was a thick brown filling oozing from where Joker ripped the cake in half.

“I think this is chocolate,” said Crow.

Joker brought his half closer to his eyes, pursing his lips. “Nope. Definitely red bean paste.”

Crow pinched the taiyaki, watching as the filling leaked from the pastry like mud. “Look at the consistency. It’s chocolate.”

“Red bean paste is thick like that too.”

Crow put his pastry half in front of Joker’s eyes, giving it another squeeze. “I don’t see a single bean in there.”

Joker’s eyes went wide for a moment at the fish-shaped intrusion in his personal space, brows twitching as his vision adjusted. He looked between the filling and Crow, finally settling his eyes on Crow’s. A cheeky grin— the same grin he always had when he was thinking of doing something particularly offensive— was tugging at Joker’s lips, eyes looking devilishly playful. The second Crow’s eyes met Joker’s, he could tell exactly what the thief was planning, but he wasn’t given enough time to react, and before he could even blink, Joker was sinking his teeth into Crow’s taiyaki. His eyes did not break away from Crow’s, taking slow, steady chews and really savoring the way that Crow’s eye twitched with every bite. He swallowed, making an exceptionally irritating smack of his lips that Crow could feel scraping deep within his bones.

“Yep. It’s chocolate.”

This was normal. Crow was treating this as if everything was normal. This was just like their previous conversations. A bit of banter, some competition, an attempt to push each other’s buttons. Joker trusted Crow enough to let his guard down around him, to let himself be so carefree around Crow. Crow hadn’t done anything to earn this level of trust from him.

Joker’s tongue darted from his mouth, licking up a dribble of chocolate that was smeared on his lips. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask,” he wiped the remaining chocolate onto his sleeve, though Crow chose to bite his lip instead of making a scathing comment about it, “has your Nav been acting a bit weird lately?”

His Nav was fine, though he did make the recent mistake— one that could have easily compromised his secret identity— of activating his app within enough range to accidentally bring Joker into the Metaverse with him. It was hilarious, really, how Joker was just walking around Shibuya, casually passing Goro in an alleyway, neither of them aware of who the other really was in the Metaverse. Maybe Joker had made a stop at Triple 7, right after Goro, replenishing his snack hoard. If that was the case, he must have spoken to Akira. Maybe he and Akira were friends— Akira seemed to have a lot of those.

“My Nav has been fine,” said Crow. “Why do you ask?”

“Mine was activated by accident yesterday. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, either.” Joker fidgeted with his taiyaki, picking at the flaky crust with his fingers.

“Oh, how curious. Did it bring you to Mementos?”

So, Joker didn’t suspect Goro. Crow was almost certain of this already based on Joker’s own reactions in the palace, but it was nice to have the extra assurance of Joker’s own word.

“No, it brought me to some… palace. Someone else ended up walking within range of the Nav and was transported to the Metaverse with me.”

“Ah, I’ve never had a stranger be transported to the Metaverse with me by accident,” Crow mused. Technically not a lie, since Joker wasn’t a stranger to him. They were strangers in Tokyo, but not in the Metaverse.

“Well, he wasn’t a stranger,” said Joker.

Interesting.

“Was it a friend? That would make for quite the awkward situation.” A simple yes would narrow down his suspects for Joker’s identity considerably, though Crow already knew the answer was no. He had acquaintances, yes, but there was nobody who he considered to be a friend. Akira was the closest thing he had, though his recent bout of physical touchiness had led to him being demoted from rival to nuisance.

“You know Goro Akechi— that Detective Prince guy from TV? It was him.”

He wanted to laugh, he really did. Hearing his own legal name leaving the leader of the Phantom Thieves’ mouth felt so wrong, yet oddly familiar, like his name belonged on Joker’s lips. He wanted to hear him say it again.

“Oh, Akechi-san. I’ve seen him on the news before.” Also not a lie. He’s watched his own interviews. “I can assume you’re not a fan?”

Joker barked out a laugh. “The real question should be whether Akechi is a fan of mine, and the answer is definitely not.” The lack of honorifics made Crow cringe, though Crow didn’t bother to correct him. “But other than that, he’s very… pleasant. I’ve never seen anyone manage to curse someone out so politely before.”

Crow really did pride himself in his manners, though something about Joker made him speak rather bluntly at times. He wasn’t allowed to get close to Joker. He had to drive that wedge between them. “One of the Phantom Thieves' many detractors, I see.”

“He threatened to arrest me, Crow.” Joker took a bite from his taiyaki, but seemed to instantly get distracted by a new thought. “Hey, remember that time you also threatened to arrest me over an allegedly poisoned cup of coffee? You two should totally work together. You have a common enemy, and I think you’d make a pretty good team.”

Crow certainly wasn’t expecting to hear that last sentence. “Oh, why do you say that?”

Joker’s brows furrowed slightly, lips pursed like he was reading a sheet of paper that had the very answer spelt out for him, but in a language he didn’t understand. “I… I don’t know.”

Crow was very, very thankful for the Metaverse’s cognition, which gave him an extra layer of protection for his identity. Goro’s status as a celebrity, combined with the fact that he was face-to-face with Joker in his own plain clothes would make it rather easy to come to a conclusion on Crow’s true identity otherwise.

At the very least, Joker has no reason to make any theories on the identity of Black Mask. Hell, he’s probably oblivious to Black Mask’s existence.

Things were complicated, but they could be worse. They could be a lot worse, actually.

Akira had a rather curious group of friends. Ryuji Sakamoto, his best friend, apparently, was a primary target of Suguru Kamoshida, and one of the only people known for rebelling against him. Yusuke Kitagawa was best known for being Ichiryusai Madarame’s pupil, and was an incredible artist himself. The Phantom Thieves’ logo was very amateurish when they had first targeted Kamoshida, but their more public decry of Madarame came with a very sleek logo, something far more professional looking.

It was interesting, really. A simple deduction, and one that he hated to think about despite how often Joker seemed to be consuming his mind lately. In fact, he hated thinking about it more than he hated Joker, which was saying a lot, because he hated Joker a lot, actually. His deduction simply couldn’t be the case, because if it was, then he would have to admit things to himself that he wasn’t ready to admit. He would have to do things that he knew he did not want to do, but that he would have to, because otherwise, his entire plan would be for nothing.

But it was okay, because it was just a mere deduction, and not a statement of the facts.

Yesterday’s conversation with Ryuji is what really sparked these thoughts. Ryuji had connections to Kamoshida, and Yusuke had connections to Madarame. Akira was friends with both of them. Surely, this would make all three of them suspects for Joker’s identity— at least, that’s what the detective side of his brain was telling him. Goro let himself get attached. He had too many feelings about Akira, so the thought of him having any affiliation with the Phantom Thieves beyond being a mere fan was something that he would rather not think about, actually. Otherwise he would have to be alone again, because revenge against Shido was a necessity, and he didn't care if Akira happened to get in the way of that.

It would be nothing more than a minor inconvenience, actually, because it’s not like he’d let himself get attached to Akira or anything. Revenge was more important. Retribution was the very foundation that he had built his entire view of justice around. He didn’t care if it took Akira’s life, or his own life, but it couldn’t take Shido’s life, because the whole point was that he had to suffer, and he couldn’t suffer in life if he was already dead.

It was fine, though, because he was in Leblanc right now, which meant he didn’t have to think about Shido. Leblanc was safe, away from any of Shido’s influence and his pristine hands that wrapped around Goro’s puppet strings. Goro’s thoughts were a mere deduction, which meant that Leblanc was still safe right now. Akira was here, and Goro wasn’t alone. The future didn’t matter, because right now he wasn’t alone. He didn’t like thinking about what his life would be like in a few months, but he enjoyed thinking about Shido’s miserable downfall, which made everything worth it. Shido had told Goro that this was everything that they had been working towards— the conspiracy involving Okumura, and the death of the leader of the Phantom Thieves— and he was right. Goro had been working on this downfall for years. This was everything he had been working towards.

Leblanc was more crowded than usual, which really wasn’t saying a lot, because most nights it was just Akira and the low chatter from the TV. His guardian, Sojiro, was at the cafe tonight, which was a rarity for Goro to see because of how late he tended to visit Leblanc at. One of Akira’s friends was visiting too, which made Goro feel particularly ill, because Leblanc was supposed to be empty at this time. He liked to come in around closing because he knew that Akira would always keep the cafe open longer to accommodate him. No other customers would come in this late, which meant that it was always just the two of them. None of Akira’s friends.

His friend was sitting in a booth, which made Goro only slightly less irritated. If he was sitting in Goro’s usual seat, then clearly that would be a sign that he was not welcome here. It’s not like he was welcome anywhere else, either. There was a neat row of brushes and a few bottles of ink on the table, along with a thick sketchpad with worn, frayed pages. This must be Yusuke Kitagawa.

Goro wanted to sit in his usual seat with Akira while he sipped a cup of coffee with Morgana in his lap, but manners were important. He had to introduce himself to Yusuke and make his acquaintance. He gave a small wave to Akira and Sojiro, and then made his way over to Yusuke’s booth, standing over the art supplies as he waited for the artist to acknowledge his presence.

Yusuke did not shift his attention from his sketchbook.

Goro leaned in a little closer, deciding to say something this time. “Hello! You must be one of Kurusu-kun's friends.” His voice was oozing with courtesy.

Yusuke’s eyes darted up towards Goro, dropping his pen onto his paper. “Oh, I didn’t see you there,” he said, eyes wide. “I'm Yusuke Kitagawa.”

“Goro Akechi. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Yusuke’s hand immediately drifted back towards his pen the second that Goro introduced himself, as if it were a part of his body. Goro took a seat across from Yusuke, eyes scanning the open sketchpad in front of him. There was a very mechanical-looking drawing of a machine, with hard, precise lines and very geometric in construction.

“Oh, is that Leblanc’s coffee mill?” Goro asked, pointing towards the drawing.

“You recognized it?” Yusuke’s pen stopped moving.

“Leblanc is the only cafe I know of that uses an old fashioned coffee mill like that,” Goro laughed.

Yusuke turned the drawing towards Goro, tracing the solid outline with the back of his pen. “This isn’t my usual style.” He gestured towards a series of dotted lines and faded arrows. “It’s very… derivative. What feeling does it evoke in you?”

Goro focused on the clean, exact linework, rectangles being perfectly parallel and ellipses having a neat curve to them. There were faint arrows indicating circular motions near the handle of the mill, Goro picturing Akira’s skilled hands grinding mounds of coffee beans. The shapes were layered, as if the machine was being viewed through an x-ray. “It reminds me of an instruction manual. If I purchased a new coffee mill, I feel like I would see this exact diagram with an explanation on how to use the machine.”

“Yes… that’s exactly what I was going for.” Yusuke gave a gentle smile. “I’ve been studying Marcel Duchamp’s art, particularly his paintings. Some of them have a very mechanical look to them, like a diagram. It really makes me muse about every object’s intent: why we use it, and what service it provides us.”

“So you’re studying its purpose?” Asked Goro.

“Yes.”

“Very interesting. Why is that?”

Yusuke took a deep breath. “I’m reexamining my own purpose. I know you’re familiar with Sensei— I mean, Madarame’s case, since you’ve spoken about it on TV.” His expression got very serious. “His exploitation of the medium of art has tainted my own artistic expression. I need to find my purpose again, divorced from his influence.”

Purpose was something that Goro thought about quite frequently. His own purpose has always been clear to him since the moment he first awakened his Persona, and was the driving force behind everything he did, every word he spoke, and every thought in his brain.

Goro drummed his fingers against the table. “That reminds me of something, actually… are you familiar with teleology?”

Yusuke grimaced. “I’ve never heard of such a word before.”

Goro gave a light chuckle, grabbing a napkin from the dispenser on the table. “May I borrow your pen?”

Yusuke handed him his pen, and Goro began scribbling the word teleology down. “It’s English.” He circled the first few letters of the word. “It’s derived from the Greek word telos, which means ‘end,’ or one’s purpose.”

“So is it the study of one’s purpose?” Yusuke asked.

“Mm, not quite.” Goro put the pen to his chin, pursing his lips. “It’s essentially Plato and Aristotle’s idea that all things can be defined by their purpose. For example,” he held Yusuke’s pen out, “the purpose of this pen is to write. Its design— the pointed tip, and the slim form— all exist to fulfill its purpose.”

“It exists to fulfill its purpose…” Yusuke echoed.

Goro glanced down at Yusuke’s drawing, and then towards Akira, who was grinding a mound of coffee beans at the coffee mill. “The purpose of a coffee mill… is to grind coffee beans. To do its job competently, it needs to have a sharp blade and a strong handle. If it does not have these elements, it cannot complete its purpose. Without its purpose, it’s useless.”

Yusuke nodded. “If my pen ran out of ink, I would throw it away, because it would be of no use to me.”

Goro smiled. “Exactly. You understand.”

“So what would you say your purpose is?”

“Ah, well… that’s a very loaded question.” Revenge. Retribution. Punishment. “I would say that the most basic element that makes me who I am is my sense of justice. My sense of justice is shaped by my purpose, which… isn’t as noble as one may assume.” Goro gave an awkward laugh, tugging at the collar of his dress shirt. “It’s a very… deep, personal grudge.”

Yusuke furrowed his brow. “That doesn’t sound very fulfilling. You shouldn’t center your entire being around a grudge.”

“My purpose informs every element of who I am. Asking me to change my purpose is like asking me to become a different person,” said Goro.

“I disagree with that sentiment.” Yusuke pulled out his phone, quickly tapping at his screen, and then turned the screen towards Goro. There was an image of what looked to be a wine rack, composed of a series of metal circles that formed its tall skeleton, held together by four thick metal strips. There were prongs protruding from its sides, looking almost like little arms. “This is Duchamp’s Bottle Rack. It’s a readymade sculpture— he simply purchased it at a department store. The elements of its design— its prongs, its height, and its round composition— all were created with the purpose of holding bottles.”

Goro nodded. “That makes sense.”

“However,” Yusuke continued, “Duchamp removed it from its original context. It no longer serves as a bottle holder, but instead as a work of art in a gallery. Its original elements were unchanged, but the piece was given a new purpose.”

Goro’s mouth formed a firm line, eyes darting away.

Yusuke turned away from his phone, instead focusing on his sketchbook again. His hand was making short, rapid strokes across the paper. “Similar to the bottle rack, I also wish to change my purpose. I will cease to center my life around Madarame. The elements of my being— my love of art, in particular— were heavily influenced by him, but that doesn’t mean that they only exist for him. I wish to create art to explore both the beauty and the ugly in the world.” His eyes shifted behind Goro. Goro turned around, gaze meeting at the painting near Leblanc’s door.

Yusuke continued, “I also desire to continue the legacy of my mother. It would be an honor to create a work even a fraction as beautiful as hers.”

Goro vividly remembers reading Madarame’s case file. The plagiarism, the exploitation, the death of Yusuke’s mother. It was no wonder such a revolting man was affiliated with the likes of Shido. Goro had always known that Madarame was much more than his public image, but he was unaware of how deep his crimes truly went. The story surrounding Yusuke’s mother’s death made Goro's stomach particularly turn; it was a bit too similar to what Shido had done to his own mother. He remembered the way his hands trembled around Madarame’s case file the first time he read it.

“Is— is that her work?” Goro already knew the answer.

“Yes. I’ve always felt a very deep connection to this painting. It’s the reason I became so infatuated with art in the first place.”

“So you were under the impression that Madarame created it, but the true artist was your mother. Your mother’s legacy was your purpose all along. It never changed.”

Yusuke’s eyes went wide. “My purpose never changed… only my perception of it did.”

Goro hummed.

“But does that sentiment not ring true for you too? Can you not change the perception of your purpose?” Yusuke asked. “You said you hold a grudge. Someone must have wronged you, or someone you care about. Does your purpose not lie in that compassion instead?”

Shido killed Goro’s mother, but the blood was on Goro’s hands. Goro was used as a tool to make his mother miserable, just as he was now being used as a tool to do Shido’s bidding. He once wished to be a hero, to help his mother, but she didn’t want him, clearly. There was no use in playing hero when the most heroic thing you could do is to simply leave because you were nothing more than a burden. He had no purpose other than to weaponize his bastardized existence, which was why his purpose lay with Shido.

“No,” said Goro. “I’m fairly certain of my purpose.”

Yusuke’s hand was moving much more rapidly now, a frenzy of quick flicks of the arm as his eyes focused so intensely that Goro expected them to bore a hole through the paper. He gave one final stroke, pen lifting from the paper as his eyes briskly scanned the drawing in front of him.

“For you…” Yusuke tore the page from the sketchpad, sliding it to Goro, “similar to the coffee grinder, I have illustrated your purpose.”

On the page was a portrait of Goro, though it looked nothing like the sketch of the coffee mill. The lines were loose and sketchy, lacking the confidence and precision of the coffee mill’s linework. Goro’s features were scribbled on almost carelessly, but with clear intent, mouth turned into a deep frown.

“I cannot illustrate you with certainty, because you aren’t certain of your own purpose,” Yusuke explained. “You say you are, but I sense doubt. Your purpose is centered around such a miserable idea, thus you are miserable yourself. Deep down, you wish for change, but you won’t allow yourself to conceptualize that change, so you tell yourself that change is simply impossible.”

Goro picked up the paper, gripping it between his fingers. It made a sharp crinkling noise.

“I will draw a better portrait of you when you start living for a better purpose,” Yusuke said.

Goro’s eyes were dull, and they did not break away from the paper. “I truly loathe everything this drawing stands for.”

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

Akechi was perhaps Leblanc’s most loyal customer.

He spent most nights at the cafe, and Sojiro had even mentioned that Akechi stopped for coffee on some mornings before school too. It had become a bit of a routine for the both of them, which is why the second Akira heard Leblanc’s door jingle, he didn’t even bother to look up to see who had arrived.

Akira was scrubbing a few dishes at the sink, Morgana sitting next to him as he sniffed at a leftover smear of curry on a dirty plate.

“I’ll be there in a minute, Akechi,” Akira called out, drying his hands on his apron.

“Ah, take your time! I’m in no rush,” Akechi said.

Akira heard a light clatter from over by the counter. It was probably Akechi putting his briefcase on the seat next to him. Akira had always found it a bit humorous how delicately Akechi treated his briefcase; he almost never placed it on the floor, usually requesting a table with at least three seats when they went out to eat together so his briefcase could be safely housed on a cushioned chair. It had minimal scuffing despite it being made from a material that was practically asking to be covered in scratches. Akira’s bag, meanwhile, was full of cat hair, frayed at the edges, and was victim to more than a few soda spills. It was very overdue for a trip to the laundromat.

Akira made his way over to the coffee pot, pouring a cup of Akechi’s usual order— already prepared, since the two had arranged plans together in advance— and placing it in front of the detective. The second his eyes met with Akechi's, he could see that there was something rather unusual about him today. Akechi was always conscious of his appearance, dressing quite formally even in casual settings, but today’s outfit was even more immaculate than usual, looking as if his morning routine had doubled in length. His dress shirt and red patterned sweater was topped by a long coat that reached around his knees, complete with his familiar detective gloves. His makeup was different— his lips were glossy, and his face looked like it belonged on the cover of a magazine. On top of everything, Akira couldn’t help but notice—

“You’re wearing a different cologne.”

Akechi’s eyes widened, before his face turned a particularly pleasant shade of pink. “I’d say I’m surprised that you noticed, but after you managed to catch onto my left handedness while we played billiards, I expect to hear comments like that from you.” His eyes darted away from Akira’s. “This is my more expensive cologne. I only save it for special occasions.”

Akira leaned against the counter, letting out a small hum. “I thought you just wanted to spend the day going to a few shops. You must have a pretty loose definition of 'special occasion'.”

For a second, Akechi’s face looked like that of a criminal who was being put on trial, an accidental slip of the tongue leaving his mouth while he was on the stand, blatantly admitting to his most vicious crimes. “Well…” he started, “it’s not often that I get a day that’s entirely free. My Sundays are usually packed with detective work.”

“Aww, you decided to spend your only free day with me. How cute.” Akira gave a particularly obnoxious smile and batted his eyelashes.

Akechi gave a soft chuckle, rolling his eyes. “I like to spend my free time productively.”

“Mhm, you’ve mentioned that before,” Akira hummed. “By the way, did you remember to eat breakfast?”

“I managed to grab an apple during my transfer at Shibuya.” Akechi took a sip of his coffee.

“You and your apple…” Akira grumbled. He lingered over to the stove, scooping a big spoonful of rice, and then curry, and setting it on a plate. He walked back over to Akechi, sliding the food in front of him.

Akechi’s eyes dropped down to the plate, mouth forming a small ‘o.’ “That's… a lot of food.”

Akira grabbed a rag from his pocket, scrubbing a little cluster of cat hair off the counter— Sojiro was coming back at any minute, and Akira knew how much he hated having Morgana on the counter. “You don’t have to eat all of it. I’ll pack up the leftovers.” He watched from the corner of his eye as Akechi picked a few bites off his plate. “What’s the plan for today, by the way? You texted me last night about clothes shopping.”

“Well, the fireworks festival is tomorrow, and I was hoping to wear a yukata this year. It’s been quite a while since I’ve worn one, so I wanted to go shopping. There’s a cafe in Harajuku that I also wanted to stop by afterwards.”

“Harajuku… I don’t go there too often.” He’s been there a few times with Ann, trips usually ending with Akira holding about fifty shopping bags filled with random accessories that Ann insisted Akira should get. He hasn’t once worn that one particularly ugly pair of glasses that Ann managed to slip into his shopping basket, nor does he plan on ever wearing them. “And you’re going to the fireworks festival too?”

“Mhmm,” Akechi hummed, taking another long sip from his coffee.

“I’m heading there with a few friends tomorrow.” Akira found his mouth moving faster than his brain… “If you don’t have plans with anyone else, you should come with us.”

“Are you sure?” Akechi asked. His voice came out calmly, but Akira could sense a bit of eagerness behind his words.

“I’ll text them all right now,” Akira said, whipping out his phone and typing out a quick message.

Morgana leaped onto the counter, his tail whisking around curiously. “I’m sure the others won’t mind,” he said. “Akechi seems very…” he glanced over at the detective, who was taking small bites of his food, “important to you. The festival would be a good time to introduce him to the rest of the group.”

Akira nodded, but before he could say a word, Leblanc’s door let out a sharp jingle, and in the blink of an eye, Morgana leapt off the counter and onto the seat next to Akechi, curling himself around his briefcase. Sojiro was standing at the door, plastic bag in hand as he hung his hat on the coat hanger and made his way behind the counter.

“Good morning, Sakura-san!” Akechi greeted with a smile.

Sojiro placed his bag on the counter, tying an apron around his waist. “I’ve told you before, you can call me Boss.”

“My apologies, Boss-san.”

Sojiro let out a chuckle as he mumbled, “This kid…”

Since Akechi started stopping at Leblanc in the daytime, Akira wondered what he and Sojiro's conversations were like. Sojiro’s wisdom on picking up women would be pretty useless to Akechi, unless maybe he started using that advice on Akira… Akira would have to keep a vigilant eye out.

“You two are heading out today, right?” Sojiro asked.

“Mhmm, we’re going yukata shopping for the fireworks festival,” Akechi hummed. His eyes darted towards Sojiro, whose focus was on a newspaper crossword puzzle. He quickly scooped a bit of curry from his plate and placed it on the chair’s cushion, right in front of Morgana.

Sojiro glanced at Akira. “You’re wearing a yukata to the fireworks festival?”

Akira’s hand trailed behind his back, untying his apron in a quick motion. “Nope. Just Akechi.”

Akechi interjected, “We’re both wearing yukatas, actually.”

Akira whipped his head around, eyes meeting the detective’s. “When did I agree to that?”

“Remember when I beat you at billiards a few weeks ago? I believe I deserve a prize…”

“A prize? You want your prize to be to have me walk around all night in a yukata tomorrow? Why, exactly?”

Akechi’s face turned a very deep shade of red, which he not-so-skillfully hid behind his coffee mug. Sojiro scrunched his eyebrows, reading Akechi’s face carefully. His eyes had that wise look behind them, the same look he’d have when he’d give Akira advice on dating.

“He did say he beat you in billiards,” Sojiro said.

“You’re siding with him?” Akira asked. He desperately turned towards his cat. “What about you, Morgana?”

Morgana peeped his head from the chair, whiskers coated in a thick layer of Akechi’s curry, and fur disheveled from where Akechi was certainly scratching him on the head.

Akira sighed. “You know what? Don’t even answer that. I already know you’re being bribed.”

“I’ve actually been picking up a bit of cat in my spare time,” Akechi said, placing his mug down. “Apologies for the rudimentary translation, but I believe he said he agrees with me.”

“You know what? You’re all uninvited.”

“Me?” Morgana piped up. “I didn’t even say anything!”

“I was invited?” Sojiro asked, attention back to his crossword puzzle.

“It seems that me and Morgana will just have to go together, then…” He picked Morgana up, placing him onto his lap and dabbing at the curry stains on his face with a napkin. “You can help me pick out a yukata, and then maybe we can get something for you. Do you think they make kanzashi for cats?”

Akira sighed, grabbing his bag from one of Leblanc’s booths and tossing it onto the chair next to Akechi. He walked over to the detective, snatching Morgana from his evil, bribing grasps and securing him into his bag. Akechi pouted.

“Unless you can find a way to stuff Morgana in your briefcase, I’m not letting you hold him for the subway ride.”

“Maybe if I cut a hole in the front…” Akechi mumbled. He watched as Akira ran a few fingers through his messy hair and brushed the cat fur off of his jeans.

“Are you ready to go?” Akira asked.

“Mhm, I was just finishing up.”

Akira’s eyes shifted towards Akechi’s plate, which was almost completely empty. He smiled to himself.

“Bye, Sojiro!” He called out with a wave.

Sojiro whipped his head towards the pair. “Oh, you’re leaving already?”

“Yep, we’re probably gonna need a lot of time if we’re both getting yukatas,” Akira said. “It’s best to leave early.”

Sojiro’s eyes landed on Akechi, whose face was red again, mouth pressed into a firm line. Sojiro smirked to himself.

Akechi looked like he wanted to evaporate into dust and never look either of them in the eyes again, so Akira made sure to take extra long in getting ready before taking the slowest steps imaginable out the door.

Harajuku was expectantly packed, crowds of people wearing fluffy skirts, elaborate, colorful hair, and an assortment of accessories, ranging from pastel hair pins to patterned stockings and purses. Akira was feeling a bit out of place, showing up to such a stylish district wearing jeans and a solid black tee over an open button up. Maybe his glasses would give him extra fashion points.

It was especially embarrassing to be looking so plain when he was standing next to Akechi, who took this day as an opportunity to dress so nicely. There was no telling how long Akechi spent on his hair this morning, especially compared to Akira, who simply ran his fingers through his locks a few times and patted down any stray hairs.

Akira noticed a group of people who were especially colorful, one girl with her hair tied up in a pair of multicolored pigtails.

He nudged Akechi with his elbow. “You should do your hair like that.”

Akechi glanced towards the girl. “I don’t think I could pull off colorful hair like she could. Plus, I would probably get fired if I showed up to work with my hair dyed pink and blue.”

“But what about the pigtails?” Akira asked.

“Hmm… no.”

“We need to see what it looks like before you give a definitive no. Let me put your hair in pigtails.” Akira prodded at Akechi’s jacket. “I know you keep a hair tie somewhere on you. I’ve seen you tie your hair up multiple times.”

Akechi nudged Akira away, raising his arm up so Akira couldn’t snag the hair tie off of his wrist. “You’re not allowed anywhere near my hair anymore after those two instances of you completely ruining it.”

Akira’s hand grabbed for Akechi’s hair, but Akechi gave a quick dodge.

“Curse your stupid reflexes,” Akira huffed.

Akechi took a step back, creating a distance between him and his assailant. “There’s a store that sells yukatas around the corner,” he said, not even attempting to hide the fact that he was trying to change the subject.

Akechi guided Akira around the colorful boutiques of Harajuku, apparently very knowledgeable about the district with how many niche shops he was able to recognize. Akira had never really thought of Akechi as the type to be so up-to-date on trends, but he did dress very nicely, and he had a strong social media presence, so it wasn’t much of a surprise, really.

They stopped in front of a small store with a window display of a pair of pink yukatas, which Akechi was eyeing very carefully.

“Hmm… How would you feel about pink?” He asked, hand to his chin.

“Not really my color. I prefer red.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Akechi said, as if he were in charge of Akira’s yukata choices.

As they walked into the shop, Akechi’s eyes were instantly tracing along the walls of wooden shelves, looking over each yukata display as he pressed his finger to his lips. His eyes darted to Akira, and then back to a shelf filled with black, floral patterned yukata.

“Can you stand in front of that display for me?” He asked, pointing over to the shelf.

“I can’t even make my own choices?” Akira huffed, despite complying.

“Shhh… I’m thinking.” Akechi’s face had his all-too-familiar detective look to it, as if Akira’s yukata choice was Tokyo’s next big cold case, and he was determined to be the one to solve it. His eyes were rapidly flicking between the yukata display and Akira, brow creased with a deep wrinkle as he hummed to himself. “Hmm… no.”

Akira frowned. “Why not?”

Akechi gestured towards the patterned gray flower petals along the sleeve, fingers tracing along the smooth fabric. “The pattern distracts from your eyes. Your eyes are one of the most attractive parts of your face, so I think we should find something that brings them out rather than diverting attention from them.”

Akira felt a heat blaze on his cheeks. “Since when were you the appraiser of my face? Did all that staring you do finally give you the confidence to label yourself as my number one critic?”

Akechi whipped his head around, apparently incredibly interested in a bright yellow yukata with lemon patterns. “Oh, look at this one! It’s so yellow.”

Akira took a few steps closer to the object of Akechi’s interest, lifting up the sleeve and inspecting it as if he was looking at a used car at a dealership. “Hmm…” he mumbled, doing his best impression of Akechi. “I’m not so sure about this one… it really washes out your hair color. Your hair is the most handsome part about you, y’know.”

Akechi once again whisked away, this time practically burrowing his head into one of the shelves to closely inspect a green yukata, staring it down like he were analyzing fingerprints under a microscope. “This is a… v-very nice shade of green…” he choked out.

“Oh, what about this one!” Akira asked, pointing towards a bright red yukata. “It matches the color of your face.”

Akechi’s head shot up towards Akira, eyes wide like he was answering the door to a group of police, or maybe he was caught murdering someone in broad daylight. His hand found its way to his cheeks, covering his face in perhaps the least subtle way possible. “I’m not quite sure what you’re referring to,” he said, words coming out as a mumble behind the barrier of his hand.

“Here, I’ll show you.” Akira tugged Akechi’s arm away, exposing his face, which was contorted into a scowl, lips frowning and eyes screaming murder. Akira fished his phone out of his pocket, snapping a quick photo of Akechi and turning the screen around to show the detective, grabbing the hem of the yukata and tugging it towards his phone as a reference sample. “See, nearly identical,” he grinned.

Akechi lunged towards Akira’s phone, only to be stopped by a firm hand. “Delete that photo now or so help me—”

Akira hummed. “Hmm… maybe I could make this my new lockscreen. I’ve been meaning to change things up.”

“Kurusu.”

“There’s a few forums that would kill to see this photo. Maybe I should charge them 500 yen a pop.”

“Kurusu.”

Akechi’s face looked… terrifyingly similar to Crow’s, down to the concerningly ruthless look in his eyes that made Akira feel like he was envisioning around five hundred different ways to kill him. Akechi could very easily slip a vial of poison into his food, or maybe attempt to bribe Morgana into a quick kill in his sleep. He knew Morgana would never betray him like that, but the thought still sent a shiver down his spine.

“Fine, fine, I’ll delete it!” He said, very much not deleting it.

Akechi seemed to be ignoring Akira now, eyes once again analyzing every yukata on the shelf. He finally landed on a black yukata with thin, dark gray vertical stripes that ran along the entire garment.

“This one…” he mumbled, looking towards Akira. “It’s perfect. All you need is a bit of red… maybe the obi, or something in your hair…”

Akira wanted so badly to disagree with Akechi, solely on the principle that Akechi was hijacking this entire shopping trip— which he already forced Akira to participate in— but he couldn’t deny that the yukata that Akechi picked out was very stylish, and just his taste. Maybe Akechi was finally putting all that staring to good use.

Akechi handed Akira the neatly folded yukata and gestured towards the area of the store that was filled with accessories. “Go pick out something red,” he said, his smile nauseating as ever.

At least Akira got to pick the accessory, even if Akechi was in charge of colors now, apparently.

Akira picked a simple red obi, heeding Akechi’s advice. By the time he made his way back to Akechi, Akechi was already stuffing a bag filled with purchased goods into his briefcase.

Akira raised an eyebrow. “How did you—?”

“Ah ah, no peeking! I’m not letting you see until tomorrow.”

Akechi was being a nuisance today, yes, but at the very least, he was offering to pay for Akira’s food at the cafe down the street, so Akira would allow it this one time. For the small price of one meal, Akechi could be as annoying as he pleased, actually.

Akechi was staring down his parfait like he was trying to intimidate it into submission, vision particularly focused on the layer of granola towards the middle. He started tapping at his phone, eyes flicking back to the berries that topped the yogurt before he quickly typed something else.

“I promise the parfait isn’t gonna run away from you. You don’t have to stare it down like that,” Akira said, stuffing a few fries into his mouth.

Akechi started moving the yogurt to opposite parts of the table, inspecting different angles as he observed the very slight difference of lighting between the back left corner and middle of the area. He snapped a few photos with his phone, squinting his eyes while he zoomed into the most recent photo he took.

“Which one of these looks better to you?” He asked, turning his screen towards Akira and flicking between two of the photos.

“Um…” Akira narrowed his eyes, “they look identical.”

Akechi let out a huff, turning his attention back to his screen as he rapidly swiped between pictures.

“I like this photo, but your arm is in the way,” he muttered. “Maybe I could edit it out.”

“Ouch. Sorry that my arm doesn’t meet the standards of your food blog.”

Akechi flicked his eyes up towards Akira. “How are the fries?”

“They’re fine… could use a bit more salt I guess.”

Akechi nodded along, pecking at his screen as he jotted down notes. “Needs more salt…” he mumbled.

“Why don’t you just try them yourself?” Akira asked, waving a fry in Akechi’s face.

“Bad for my skin…” he grumbled, eyes still glued to his phone.

“How could you possibly review a food you haven’t even tried?”

“I’ve written reviews for quite a few things I haven’t actually eaten before,” Akechi said, “like those lamb skewers you got at Kichijoji.”

Akira gasped. “You mean to tell me… your food blog is a lie? I thought I was getting genuine food recommendations from the Detective Prince.” He feigned wiping a tear from his eye, letting out a dramatic sniffle. “You can’t do this to me, Akechi.”

“Have you seen how long some of my reviews are? Do you really think I could fit all of that in my stomach? It’s only rational that I’d use you as my taste tester.” He took a few more photos of the parfait, particularly picky about the glare this time, before finally picking up his spoon. “Time for the first bite!”

Akira watched as Akechi took slow bites of his food, marking down hasty notes onto his phone in between each chew. He had a very boyish smile on his lips, hand fanned out over his face as he took another scoop from his dish.

“For someone who mentioned being so forgetful about meals, it’s pretty ironic that one of your hobbies centers around food,” Akira said, fries shoved in his mouth.

“Well, it’s important to have a strong social media presence when you’re a public figure. Plus, I like supporting local businesses. It’s the only place I can get a nice, home cooked meal… Food says a lot about a person, you know.”

“So when’s that review on Leblanc coming out? I’m expecting five stars after the effort I put into that curry.”

“Mm… actually, I’d prefer to be a bit greedy and keep Leblanc to myself. The last thing I need is to have my fans showing up every night once they find out that I’m a regular.” Akechi smiled. “As for the curry, it was very good, as expected. It reminded me of something my mother would make for me on the rare occasions that she had the time to cook dinner.”

“In that case… I’d love to cook for you again.”

Akechi’s face turned a bright red, which was swiftly hidden behind his hand. “Y-You… can’t keep saying things like that…”

Akira had grown to really adore the way Akechi’s face would turn so red around him. Akechi was constantly being asked out by fans, and the comments under his social media posts were always flooded with people swooning after him, yet they never received anything more than a polite smile or a gently worded rejection. Akira was the only person who could see such a subtle vulnerability in Akechi, even if Akechi was the type to hide it.

“But what if I wanted to keep saying things like that?” Akira grinned. “What if I liked the pretty shade of pink on your face?”

Akira heard the sudden squeak of a chair sliding against the floor as Akechi hastily got up from his seat, running a quick hand through his hair. “I-I need to go to the bathroom,” he choked out, darting away to the back of the cafe and through the bathroom door, out of Akira’s sight.

Akira folded his arms, resting the side of his cheek against his hand. Things could be so simple if he wasn’t living a double life; there wouldn’t be the constant nag in the back of his brain about Medjed and the fate of Tokyo, nor would he be sitting in the middle of a love triangle between Japan’s newest detective sweetheart and a masked figure whose motives and allegiances were uncertain. He wouldn’t be thinking about what Crow’s face would look like if he managed to make him wear that same flustered expression as Akechi, or what buttons he could push to make him have that face in the first place. There was someone else in Crow’s life who fit that role, and Akira simply had to live with it.

The knock of a glass being placed on the table shot a bullet right through Akira’s thoughts, Akira looking up at the presence in front of him in a slight daze. A waitress looked back at him with a smile, placing a bundle of napkins on the table before walking back behind the counter by the register.

The order she delivered must have been Akechi’s: a simple strawberry milkshake with whipped cream and a cherry. Most notably, however, was the fact that there were two straws sitting in the glass. It was something so corny, so stereotypical and hopelessly romantic, and probably something he picked up from a movie.

Suddenly it all clicked.

Akechi’s refined outfit, his expensive cologne, and his insistence on paying for the meal. Akechi must have thought he was being so cunning, with the way he came up with little excuses to explain away these patterns. Akira hated the way he found it all so endearing, because it made everything so much more complicated.

The commute to Akechi’s apartment wasn’t as awkward as Akira had anticipated, with Akechi chalking up the milkshake’s extra straw to a mere mistake, offering it to Akira as an apology for his rather overbearing behavior today. It sat between Akira’s hands in a little blue to-go cup, the single straw slowly bobbing along the subway ride.

Akechi was hunched over, elbows resting on his thighs as he fidgeted with the fingers of his gloves. He would occasionally offer Akira a quick glance before darting his head in the opposite direction when their eyes met.

Upon his fifth time cycling through this routine, he finally huffed out a simple, “Kurusu-kun…”

Akira turned towards Akechi, whose face was the same red as earlier, though much more subtle. The flustered expression was more obvious in his eyes than in his cheeks, with his eyelids half-shut and his pupils refusing to lock onto Akira’s face.

“I should have asked this earlier… but would you like to spend the night at my place?”

Akira found himself equally unable to look Akechi in the eyes. “Yes. I would like that a lot, actually.”

The sky was a dark blue by the time they reached Akechi’s apartment, Akechi placing his briefcase by the door and slipping out of his shoes.

He wordlessly tread across the room, Akira lingering behind him until he slipped into his bedroom.

“Wait out here. I’ll grab you a set of clean clothes,” he said, before turning towards the closet.

Akira obeyed Akechi’s orders, though his eyes still wandered through his bedroom from the fist-sized crack in the door. There wasn’t much he could see from this angle; just a shelf and a bed. The shelf was stacked with books ranging from Japanese law, to philosophy, to a handful of children’s books. A few were written in English. The bottom shelf was solely dedicated to manga. Akira wondered if Akechi was the type to slip a manga in between the pages of a far more sophisticated book— maybe one of the English books, if he was really looking to show off— or if he simply only indulged in his sentai interest in the confines of his apartment.

The bed was fitted with dark red sheets, topped with a blanket that Akira was hoping Akechi would be generous enough to offer him for the night, since it looked much fluffier than the blankets at Leblanc. There was a little lump resting gently on the pillow, tucked carefully under the covers.

Akechi returned with a pile of folded clothes, not a single crease or wrinkle marked into the fabric. Akechi really was the type to take the time out of his day to iron his pajamas.

“I’ll show you how to work my shower,” Akechi said, trailing towards the bathroom.

“Wait—”

Akechi turned around, eyes locking with Akira’s. “Is something wrong?”

Akira pointed towards the bed, Akechi’s gaze following his finger. “Who’s that?”

Akechi’s face fell into a pout, eyes squinted and lips pressed tightly together, until a rave of recognition hit his face when he realized what Akira was referring to. “I forgot how observant you are,” he laughed. “My expectations for you are high, yet I constantly find myself underestimating you.”

He walked back to the bathroom, plucking the object from his bed and escorting it to Akira. “This is Mimi-chan. My mother gave her to me when I was younger, and it’s one of the only things I still have from my childhood. If I’m being honest… I find it a bit embarrassing to be eighteen and still sleeping with stuffed animals, but I’ve seen you talk to your cat enough to know you wouldn’t judge me.”

Sitting in Akechi's hands was a small plush rabbit. The fur was incredibly matted and the ears were frayed. Tied around her neck was a pink bow, which was tattered at the edges.

Akira looked up at Akechi, and then back down at the plush. “Can she watch Featherman with us tonight?”

Akechi’s cheeks reddened. “Ah... maybe another night.”

Akira was escorted to the bathroom and given a quick lesson on how to use the shower, which notably lacked a bathtub. Akechi’s bathroom was stacked with a pharmacy’s worth of soaps, creams, scrubs, or just about anything that could be used for hygiene. In his shower alone, there were five bottles of soap, not including hair products, sitting in a neat little row organized by size. Akira wasn’t sure which one Akechi wanted him to use, so he simply chose the soap that smelt the nicest.

“Oh, you picked the lavender soap… lavender is good for anxiety, you know,” was the first thing Akechi said when Akira returned from the bathroom and plopped onto the couch, which Akechi had prepared with a sheet, some blankets, and a few pillows.

Akechi made his way to the bathroom next, where he spent no less than forty five minutes while Akira occupied himself by taking pictures of Morgana. He was shocked that his phone even had available storage, given how many photos he took of Morgana every day.

Akechi eventually emerged from his tomb, followed by a large cloud of steam that bursted out of the bathroom the second he opened the door. He had a towel draped down his shoulders, wearing blue button up pajama pants with matching bottoms. His hair was littered with clips that pinned his bangs out of his eyes, and his face was coated in a thin green face mask.

Akira pursed his lips. “You know what you’re missing? You should put cucumber slices on your eyes. Y’know, like in cartoons.”

“I forgot to grab a cucumber while I was at the market yesterday,” Akechi sighed. “Thank you for reminding me, at least.”

Akechi took a few steps towards the couch, shuffling around the blankets and snaking out a thick white wire. He crouched down, plugging it into the wall and looking back at Akira with a smile.

“It’s a heated blanket,” he said. “It gets a bit cold here at night, even in the summer.” He stood up, turning back towards the bathroom. “I’ll be out in a few more minutes.”

A few minutes turned into twenty minutes, and Akechi once again emerged from the bathroom, hair slightly dampened, bangs in his eyes once more, and his face clear of any products. He was holding a small bottle with a runny, orange liquid, placing it on the coffee table and dimming the lights before taking a seat beside Akira. The VHS player was already set up, Akechi simply turning on the TV and pressing play on the remote.

“Hmm… should I light a candle?” Akechi asked, already grabbing for a lighter.

Akira watched as Akechi’s long fingers wrapped around the lighter, pressing into the trigger with a smooth click, causing a flame to spark at the end. The flame caught onto the candle, dancing along the wick as the bright orange light flickered against Akechi’s face.

Akira couldn’t help but notice the way Akechi’s lashes slightly fluttered as he focused on flicking the lighter, or the way he darted his tongue from his lips so slightly, the smallest wrinkle creasing in his forehead. His facial movements were so subtle, yet so alive, little movements reminding Akira of just why Akechi was so admired across Tokyo.

“You look like… you’re glowing,” Akira said with a small chuckle, watching the way the candle’s light bounced off of Akechi’s skin.

“Oh, so it works…” Akechi mumbled. He grabbed the small bottle from the table, shaking the liquid like it was a rattle. “This is a new product I got. It’s supposed to brighten your skin.”

“I’ve never even thought about wanting to make my skin glow.”

Akechi released a breathy laugh. “Well, I always need to keep these things in mind for my public image.” He ran his thumb along the rim of the bottle, scrunching his eyebrows slightly. “If I’m being honest, I really do enjoy making myself look presentable. I think I would still go through all this effort, even if I didn’t have to worry about TV, or the press.”

Akira sighed, leaning his back into the couch cushions. “I don’t know how you find the time for such an elaborate routine.”

Even before he became a Phantom Thief, it wasn’t like he spent more than a minute running his fingers through his hair every morning before he threw on his uniform. There was absolutely no chance of that changing now that he spent most of his afternoons in the Metaverse. He could spend all morning on his skin, only to end up looking sweaty and disheveled a few hours later after a day in a sweltering pyramid in the middle of a cognitive desert.

“Hmm…” Akechi looked at the bottle. He had an amused look to his eyes and a boyish smile on his lips as his gaze finally locked on Akira. “We have time now.”

“We do,” said Akira, “but I thought you wanted to watch Featherman.”

“We can multitask,” Akechi proposed.

Akira couldn’t argue with that.

The coffee table was now filled with an array of creams and washes, Akechi crouching in front of Akira, bottle in hand as his eyes quickly scanned the labels.

“I promise I won’t use all of these on you,” he laughed. He held a thin bottle in front of Akira. “I need you to wash your face before we do anything.”

“But I just showered,” Akira said.

“Did you use the face scrub?”

Akira did not use the face scrub, and he found himself once again, unable to argue.

He gained a newfound respect for Akechi, really, because the amount of effort that was put into his routine was commendable. His skincare products felt almost like chemical equations to Akira, each one having a very specific purpose and to be used in a certain order. After meticulously scrubbing his face in the bathroom, Akechi escorted him back to the sofa, patting the cushion rapidly as he welcomed him to sit down.

As Akira took a seat, Akechi practically shoved two bottles in his face, making sure that the labels were at eye level with Akira. “So we’ll be starting with the toner, and then ending with the new face oil,” Akechi said, shaking the little vial of orange liquid.

Akira nodded along, as if he understood what Akechi was talking about.

“But first…” Akechi’s face suddenly had a look to it. A look that Akira very much recognized, because it was the same look he gave Akechi when he was teaching him how to cut vegetables, and the same look he had earlier at the yukata shop. The most devilish, mischievous grin was spread across Akechi’s lips, which was an expression that he really wasn’t used to seeing on the calm and collected Detective Prince, but something that he wanted to see more of, actually.

Akechi hesitated for a mere second before his hands dove into Akira’s curls, fingers twisting around each lock and running down his scalp with feather-light touches.

“Your hair is so curly… you really don’t have a hair routine? No curling iron? No cream?” Akechi asked. Akira wasn’t used to such boldness in Akechi, and Akechi didn’t seem used to it either, because Akira could feel the slight shaking of his hands, and see the harsh shade of red that spread across his entire face.

Akechi couldn’t win. He couldn’t just throw Akira’s own tricks back at him and expect Akira to simply sit there and take it. No, if Akechi wanted to turn whatever this was into some kind of competition, then Akira was going to make sure that Akechi was pushed to his absolute limits.

Akira let out a sigh, lashes fluttering as he leaned into the touch. “Mm, that feels so nice…”

Akechi’s eyes were focused on Akira’s long lashes, a slight gasp leaving his lips at the sight. Akira glanced back up at Akechi, eyes half-lidded and a small smile at his lips, practically begging him to run his fingers deeper into his curls.

Akechi’s gaze darted away, hands leaving his hair and returning with a few colorful clips, clipping Akira’s bushy bangs out of his eyes with such haste that it almost reminded Akira of the way he’d clean up Morgana’s hairballs, trying to make the least amount of physical contact with them as possible.

It was Akira’s turn now. Akechi was leaning towards him, bottle in hand as he poured a bit of a thin liquid onto a small cotton pad. His eyes were studying Akira’s face carefully, like he was comparing his face to a police sketch in an effort to identify him as some kind of criminal. Akira reached his hand towards Akechi’s face, resting his fingers beneath the other boy’s chin and grasping it gently. He moved Akechi’s head slightly to the left, then to the right, surveying his features as he pursed his lips exaggeratedly, making a clicking noise with his tongue that he knew Akechi found to be particularly grating.

“Have I ever told you what nice skin you have?” He asked, eyes focused on Akechi’s cheeks. He brushed his fingers along the smooth skin of his face, gaze moving to meet Akechi’s. “And your eyes… The red really brings out the pink of your cheeks. You know, I noticed that your face is never that shade when you’re on TV, but it’s always such a vivid pink when you’re around me. Maybe it’s the lighting from the TV set that makes it look so different.”

Akechi didn’t respond. In fact, it looked like he was restraining himself from responding, lips pressed so tightly together that the muscles between his eyebrows looked to be tied into a tight knot, maybe to give the illusion that he was deep in focus on the task at hand. He wiped the cotton pad along Akira’s face, the cold liquid feeling oddly refreshing against Akira’s skin. He really wouldn’t mind doing this again.

When Akechi seemed satisfied with the progress on Akira’s face, he backed out of Akira’s grasp, turning around to grab another bottle.

“You’re a coward,” Akira blurted out.

Akechi turned around, a fierce flame ignited in his eyes. “Would you care to repeat that?”

“I said, you’re a coward.”

“Is that so?” Akechi asked, taking a step closer to Akira. He bent over, face meeting with Akira’s, a strange, almost eerie smile plastered on his face that was far more suited for Crow than Akechi, teeth showing and the corners of his lips twitching.

“You know, I’m finding it a bit difficult to work from this angle,” Akechi said, his eyes having that almost wild look to them. “Do you mind if I just—”

Akira’s eyes went wide as he felt a sudden weight in his lap. His gaze shot down, immediately hit with the sight of Akechi’s legs wrapped around his torso, the warmth of their bodies practically pressing together. His face was a mere few inches from Akira’s, their hot breaths mingling as he looked Akira directly in the eye, rubbing a cream into his face with gentle, circular motions. Akira once again found himself leaning into the soft touch, involuntarily this time, breath coming out in small gasps.

Akechi’s caresses eventually stopped, instead holding Akira’s cheeks between the smooth skin of his palms, eyes almost alluring as they bored into his rival’s. “Your move, Kurusu.”

This little game they were playing was no different than a game of chess. There was a strategy to it; Akira could either pull out the big move now, declaring a quick, easy victory, or he could corner Akechi, forcing him between making that move himself or admitting defeat.

Akira made a show of bending his arms, giving a big stretch that ran along his shoulders and across his chest, before unfolding his arms and wrapping them around Akechi’s neck. His hands found the back of the detective’s hair, curling around the strands as he ran his fingers through his silky locks. Akechi closed his eyes, a sigh leaving his lips as Akira slowly stroked the skin on the back of his neck, his fingers brushing through his hair in the process.

Akira couldn’t think of a word to describe the sight. Akechi’s chest was rising and falling with slow, deep breaths, his lashes fluttering with every inhale as his lips trembled around his own sighs. ‘Pretty’ didn’t quite capture the scene well, nor did ‘beautiful’ or ‘gorgeous’. Maybe ‘divine’ was the way to define it, with Akechi’s face looking so gentle, and so at peace and alive. It almost made him forget about the competition at hand, the reason he was doing this all in the first place.

That was right. There was a competition at hand.

Akira wrapped his hand around the base of Akechi’s hair, near his scalp, giving a sharp, sudden tug, forcing Akechi’s eyes open as he brought his face a meager inch from his own.

“Your move, detective.”

There was only one thing Akechi could do to win. They both recognized this. The answer was right there, in front of Akechi’s eyes, practically taunting him with how obvious and attainable it was.

Akechi’s gaze met with Akira’s, then darted down to his lips, then back at Akira’s eyes again. He knew the answer. He knew what he had to do to win.

Akira felt a firm hand on his chest. That same firm hand from when Crow rejected him, pushing him away as Akechi scurried into the bathroom, shutting the door and locking it with a slight click.

Akira found himself wishing that Akechi wanted to win.