Work Text:
When Akira opened his locker after a gruelling day at school, a small envelope tumbled out.
Luckily, his masterful reflexes caught it before it hit the floor. He could feel the thick edge of a folded letter inside, and when he flipped it over and around to inspect it, he saw that the flap was neatly taped down and the front was unmarked: no name, no addressee.
Akira’s first thought was ‘not another love letter’ . Ever since he gained minor fame for having a hand in exposing Kamoshida for the abusive asshole that he was, the student body had elevated his social status from ‘dangerous delinquent’ to ‘ our dangerous delinquent’. He was no longer treated like a leper - he had to practically beat admirers off with a stick, drawn to his fabled ‘bad boy’ coolness much to Ann’s amusement, when he went to complain to her about it.
(“Weren’t you complaining before about how everyone treated you like a criminal?” Ann asked, retrieving her can from the vending machine, “At least now they’re not spreading malicious rumours about you...”
“But it’s all fake ,” Akira mumbled, fiddling with his hair, “The second I screw up, they’ll turn on me again. I don’t like it.”
“Should’ve told Akechi that before he outed you as the one who helped bring Kamoshida down,” Ann sighed, straightening up and cracking her drink open, “He was singing your praises and bigging you up as some super cool ultra delinquent from a manga. His crush on you is ob-vi-ous .”
“He doesn’t have a crush on me,” Akira said, yet again, “I keep telling you, he hates me. He just did that to land me in this horrible situation.”
“Uh huh. Sure.”)
It was all Akechi’s fault. Stupid, sexy student council vice president…
However, if this was a love letter, it was a very plain one. The few he had found in his locker or under his desk always had some identifying mark on them - his name scrawled on the front in careful, precise kanji, or doodles of hearts, or sweet-smelling perfume. Sometimes they went for cutesy envelopes, patterned and expensive looking, which always made Akira’s gut cramp guiltily.
This one had nothing. It instantly piqued his interest from the mystery of it all.
“Alright, let’s see who it is,” he muttered in resignation, carefully peeling off the tape and opening it up, tugging its contents free.
There were three letters inside, precisely folded into perfect halves and tucked into each other. The handwriting was vaguely familiar, but not, spiky and rough, sloping a little off centre with the ink smudged in parts, betraying a passionate kind of haste, like his admirer couldn’t get the words out fast enough. It was kind of charming - most love letters had been painfully neat and precise, like a cookie cutter, but these were messy, and flawed, but still neatly folded up and lovingly placed into the envelope just for him.
It felt more genuine. However: there was no name.
Akira quickly flipped through the three letters, skimming the bottom and the top, and even the inside of the envelope but, no, no signature. So, this was a secret admirer, then?
Interesting.
Curiosity piqued, and internally relieved that he didn’t have to hunt down the sender of these letters to reject them, Akira picked the topmost letter and read it.
…
And read it again, because wow.
[“What will it take for the two of us to become one?
If only I could crawl beneath your skin, fuse myself to your veins and become the blood that runs through every part in your body.
Until we are so inextricably, irrevocably linked until neither of us can tell where the other begins.
Or, perhaps I would meld myself to your nerves. Until we share equally in every sensation — in pain, and of course, in pleasure.
Or to your spine, to every vertebrae. Until I can play your body like an instrument, bending it into any shape I choose.
I would like for us to become one.
Perhaps, if I push myself deep enough into your being that even our souls will join together. Until not even death can do us part.”]
“Wow,” Akira blurted, literally unable to think of anything else to say, so he said it again; “Wow.”
This was definitely not your conventional love letter.
The others had been, well, for starters, socially acceptable. Safe. Gushing words of how cool he looked, how handsome, superficial things that weren’t really him. This letter was - well, interesting way to say ‘I want to fuck you so hard our souls will merge’ for starters, but the sheer bravery to actually write this out and give it to someone…
maybe that’s why there’s no name, Akira mused. He probably wouldn’t put his name to it either until he knew it was… accepted? Or, wouldn’t freak the receiver out, anyways.
Curiously, he looked around. Having lingered for so long, the Go Home Club had already departed, and any loiterers had vanished into their respective clubs. There was no one hanging about watching him, so it seemed his admirer wasn’t nearby - or they were very good at hiding.
Well, there was another letter underneath the first, so:
[“Loathe as I am to admit it, though my feelings for you are far from base instinct, even they sometimes stray to an undercurrent of the carnal.
I find myself wondering about the softness of your lips, or the pale column of your throat, and how darkly they would bloom under my teeth.
Or at times I am captivated by the length of your legs, and imagine kissing my way up them while you lie helpless beneath me.
It is vulgar, but you bring out the vulgarity in me.
I can no more resist the thought of ruining your exquisite form than I can resist gravity.
Inexorably I am drawn to your flesh, and someday I may no longer be able to withhold my accursed desires.”]
Fucking hell.
“Wow,” he whispered, yet again, stunned and awed by the audacity - and weirdly turned on? Was it bad that he was turned on? The mystery, the intrigue, the sort of alarming yet intense passion in these smudged words - certainly more exciting than reading “I think you’re so cool and handsome!” for the nth time.
(he actually… liked it )
Akira liked thrilling things. He was an adrenaline junkie bundled beneath the thin veneer of a quiet young man. It stood to reason that these very fervent confessions from his mystery admirer was charming him in ways socially acceptable love letters from socially acceptable girls couldn’t. Whoever this person was, they were intense, incredibly unchained and raw. He liked it.
Maybe it was because there was no name to it. It felt harmless, to enjoy such focused, sensual flattery without needing to reciprocate it. Maybe his enjoyment would curdle the second he had a face to put to these words, but for now… hey, he can have a guilty pleasure, right?
“Alright, don’t let me down, mystery horndog,” Akira murmured, unfolding the final letter and reading it with building anticipation:
[“With you, I want to share a moment of intimacy.
A moment that belongs just to the two of us, away from prying eyes or wagging tongues.
But as I am a greedy creature, I want it to be a singular moment that can never be replicated, a stolen slice of time that only we would know.
I must admit, however, that the thought of you sharing such a moment with anyone else sickens me, turns my blood into a black tar that flows thickly in my veins.
And as I am a greedy creature, I know I will not be satiated by just one moment alone.
I want to monopolise it and all your other moments that follow it, whether you agree or not.”]
Straight on the heels of the sexy one, this one made Akira feel a little weird. There was a wistful longing to it, couched beneath the intense phrasing and smudged ink. Also a thread of possessiveness - okay, actually, there was a lot of possessiveness in there. A hungry, all-consuming possessiveness that gave way to unsatisfied pining...
Akira hummed thoughtfully.
He knew, without a doubt, that if any of his friends read these they’d be concerned. Alarmed even. Maybe he should be concerned and alarmed. These weren’t socially acceptable in the slightest, and he was fairly certain a few yandere-love mangas started off like this - and ended with the protagonist getting stabbed.
Instead, he tucked the letters back into the envelope and slid it neatly into his bag for safekeeping. There was no name, so it wasn’t as if anything could be done about it anyways.
For now it could be their little secret.
“Kurusu, you are the bane of my existence.”
Akira looked up from the lunchbox he had been poking at, drawn from his idle daydreaming to Akechi Goro, student council vice president, looming over his desk with a pleasant smile in place. Akira immediately recognised this as Akechi’s ‘were it not for the laws of this land, I would throttle you’ smile.
Akira did a quick mental check on what rules he could have broken to warrant this visit and came up blank.
“I'm sorry?” Akira said, when it became clear he was expected to reply.
“I don’t know why you exist to torture me in this way,” Akechi continued, like he hadn’t said anything.
“Huh?”
“Why is this, Kurusu?” Akechi’s smile widened, his eyes glittering ominous crimson from the sunlight streaming through the window, “Do I intrude on your life? Is that it?”
“Yes?” Akira’s amusement began to eclipse his absolute confusion. “You’re in my homeroom.”
Akechi ignored him, “All I want is to go one day without having to suffer your presence.”
“This is my desk.”
Akira jumped when Akechi suddenly slammed something on said desk, almost sending his lunchbox flying. Akira only just managed to save it, protectively clutching it to his chest as he cautiously looked at what Akechi bludgeoned his poor furniture with.
It was a stack of envelopes. Ranging from pink, to doodled, and all perfumed.
Love letters.
“These,” Akechi gritted out, “were in my locker, addressed to you.”
Oh. Oooooh.
Akira fidgeted with his hair awkwardly, “Um. Sorry.”
“Sorry,” Akechi repeated, with such toxic disdain Akira was amazed he didn’t drop dead on the spot, “‘Sorry’ does not eliminate the stench of cheap perfume clinging to my locker.”
“It’s… not my fault, though,” Akira said diplomatically. Normally he enjoyed ruffling Akechi’s feathers, but there was a particularly wild glint in his eye that said he wasn’t to be tested right now.
Akechi jabbed a finger at the love letters, “I don’t care how you do it, Kurusu- kun. Make a public announcement declaring your chastity, or go out with one of these-” he made a strange expression, like he just swallowed back a particularly venomous word, “- admirers. Just ensure this doesn’t happen ag-”
A thunderbolt of realisation smacked Akira square in the head, “Wait, are you jealous, Akechi?”
The student council vice president froze.
“Jealous,” Akechi straightened up and adjusted his gloves, letting out an airy laugh, “Don’t be silly, Kurusu-kun. Why would I be jealous of delinquent trash like you?”
“Uwah,” Akira clasped a hand to his cheek, uttering a soft gasp of theatrical surprise, “Goro-chan! You’re so mean when it’s just us!”
Akechi’s growled quietly, deep and low right in the back of his throat, his fingers flexing hard enough that Akira heard the leather creak, “You’re on thin ice, Kurusu. Don’t test me.”
“I’ve been on thin ice since I arrived, remember?” Akira said, dropping his hand and idly picking up the topmost love letter, “Besides, this is technically your fault.”
“How is your budding popularity my fault?”
“Because you caused it,” Akira pointed the envelope at Akechi, “You told everyone what a hotshot I was when we both exposed Kamoshida together, taking little credit for yourself. Now everyone thinks I’m a super cool delinquent even though they were happy to badmouth me only a few weeks ago.”
Akechi didn’t seem to understand why this was bad; “And… that’s a hardship, why?”
“Because everyone keeps harassing me for dates, or being fake or two-faced, and I don’t like the attention,” Akira finished, some of his frustration leaking through, “So, congrats on that. You win this round.”
There was an awkward pause.
“... round?” Akechi repeated, sounding a little lost.
“Yeah?” Akira grumped, but a bit of doubt was trickling through. Akechi had done all of that to annoy him, right? He gestured irritably at the love letter pile; “What made you think I wanted any of this?”
Akechi was quiet for a moment, his expression going eerily blank.
“... I spoke only the truth of your involvement to dispel any unfair rumours towards yourself, Kurusu,” he said in a very even, bland tone, “If the student body decided to exaggerate that on their own-”
“Oh, hey, Akechi!”
The pair of them jumped at Ann’s cheery voice. Akira watched as Akechi went ramrod straight, before the pleasant mask of student council vice president slid into place as if it had never left. It was only ever with Akira that he threw off his lambskin.
“Takamaki-san,” Akechi greeted, turning to her with a soft smile, “I’m sorry, we didn’t hear you come in.”
“I only just arrived,” she said easily, stopping next to Akechi to hand Akira a drink she’d got from the vending machine, “But it’s rare to see you here, Akechi. Visiting Akira~?”
The tone and the way she said it conveyed a certain implication, but Akechi either missed or ignored it.
“Oh, I was just, delivering something,” Akechi deflected, glancing away as he tucked a lock of hair behind his ear, “Kurusu-kun seems to be gaining popularity amongst the female students, as you can see.”
“Whoa,” Ann finally noticed the stack of love letters, “All of these?”
“They were in Akechi’s locker,” Akira said, “So.”
“Huh, that’s weird. I would’ve thought most people would know that was yours, Akechi,” Ann said, tapping her cheek, “Well, um, it’s nice of you to deliver them! Most people would’ve just trashed them...”
“Yes, well, as student council vice president, it is my duty to ensure - students receive their… letters, to facilitate… communication,” Akechi said stiltedly - and nonsensically.
Akira and Ann exchanged looks. Akira mouthed ‘what?’ only for Ann to minutely shake her head.
“Giving me love letters counts as facilitating communication?” Akira probed, unable to stop himself from pouncing when he smelled blood in the water.
A muscle ticked his Akechi’s jaw, stemming the savage retort he no doubt wanted to flay Akira with through sheer force of will.
Instead he began to look flushed - from anger, Akira assumed - twin spots of pink high on his cheeks as he loudly cleared his throat; “They’re not from me, Kurusu-kun- ah, no matter. I have delivered them on your admirers’ behalf. Now I should - go. Goodbye.”
Ann and Akira watched as Akechi promptly power-walked away from them, almost running directly into a desk in his haste. Akira was thoroughly confused at this unusual behaviour. Normally Akechi just passive-aggressively tore into him if other people were present.
“Weird,” he muttered, when Akechi slammed the classroom door shut behind him.
Ann stared at the stack of love letters for a moment before letting out a loud snort.
“You boys,” she said, when Akira gave her a questioning look, “are so dumb.”
As the weeks trundled by, the love letters from the general student body began to dwindle - but his secret admirer became emboldened.
Sometimes Akira would return to his locker to find it stuffed with multiple envelopes, bursting with letters combined to an essay length. They didn’t lose their raw intensity, the messy, smudged ink breathing sultry confessions of wanting to touch and bruise every inch of Akira’s skin in the most sensual of ways, of guttural demands for his unwavering attention and the agony-deep longing for recognition.
Other times he would find one lone, solitary letter, long and rambling, nigh incoherent yet no less passionate. The secret admirer knew how to pen his carnal desires and possessive impulses, but the softer, tender feelings, the burning kindle of affection and love was vomited onto paper with all the care of a child scattering paint over canvas. Akira enjoyed these letters the most, even if they had some really disturbing phrasing at times:
([“Now, this monster wriggles around inside me every night, plaguing my usual nightmares and turning them into sickeningly sweet dreams.
It crawls pathetically from somewhere deep inside of me,
viscerally clawing its way out through my skin with an oppressive, unstoppable surge of craving that leaves me powerless,
a pitiful mound of rotting flesh.
If I were to reveal myself that would mean you’d see it.
The beast behind the socially accepted exterior.
The fiend that lurks in the shadows of the innermost spot of my hideous, bruised mass of flesh that practicality would call a heart.”])
Every single one remained unsigned - but Akira had a suspect.
Firstly, they knew him. Knew him, as in, they clearly interacted with him enough to know his personality and life beyond the school. While the letters spoke often of his physical attributes, they also focused on his attitude and personality, his ambitions, his hobbies, his opinions and thoughts - always framed in a combative way, as if their sole interactions with Akira were always within the comforting lines of competitive or antagonistic.
There was one person in the entire school who fit that profile - and who actually knew him beyond the superficial layer of quiet delinquent.
The only question was: why?
i thought he hated me, but maybe not, Akira mused as he read one of his more recent letters. He was alone on the school rooftop, Mona sitting in his lap, purring. He couldn’t risk letting his cat out in the classroom, and he wanted some alone time too to contemplate his secret admirer’s identity. If any of his friends read these letters, barring Yusuke, he knew they would get freaked out.
[“Now, I wonder if I could keep a less tangible part of you, something only I would even know you gave me.
What would it be?
The answer, I think, lies in finality.
If in your final moments, I was allowed to put my lips to yours, I could swallow your final breath.
It would permeate my lungs, dissipate inside me and remind me of your gift with every breath I took from then on.
Or if just before the end, you let me hold you, I could absorb into myself the last of your warmth.
As the rest of you grew cold, your lingering heat would remain in my own flesh, keeping me warm even on the coldest night.
But even these gifts would not be worth the cost.
With finality would come an end to all your wonders, and one taste of your breath would never be enough.”]
Definitely freaked out.
“It couldn’t be Akechi, could it?” he asked Morgana. His cat looked up from his grooming and meowed, “He’s never polite or nice to me...”
Except, that’s the thing, isn’t it? Akechi always showed his true colours to him.
He was always genuine with him. He didn’t mince words or sheathe his barbed tongue, or use that plastic ‘uwah I’m so polite and cute~’ mask on him. If he thought Akira was being a dumbass, he’d say so with a refreshing, unrestrained bluntness. He was never afraid to challenge him, always ready to confront his opinions and ideals and quick on his feet to boot. But…
Akechi overlooked Mona. He pretended to not see his cat whenever Akira brought him in, as if understanding that sometimes- sometimes Akira needed Mona around, just something warm and gentle to hold whenever his anxieties began to crowd too loudly in his head. Other times, Akechi would accost him in the hallway and shove a coveted yakisoba pan in his hands, demanding he eat it there and then - but only on days when Akira had forgotten his lunch, because he was too wrapped up in helping someone else with their problems.
And on rarer days, when Akira felt hounded and like he was drowning in carving himself into too many segments for his self-imposed duties, Akechi would make up a rule infraction and kidnap him into a fabricated detention. They usually spent that whole time arguing about something stupid, Akira venting his frustrations on the pig-headed, immovable wall that was Akechi’s stubbornness, knowing that he could take whatever Akira threw at him.
There were other things too: small, minor acts of kindness hidden beneath Akechi’s abrasive words and couched within the acceptable lines of rivalry or authoritative henpecking. How he noticed things about him no one else, not even his friends, did.
There was the fact that Akechi was left-handed, but could write with both, his handwriting different for each one, prone to smudging the ink, lopsiding his lines, and leaving stains on his fingers on his right.
There was the fact that Akechi was popular and had his own dedicated fanbase leaving him letters, so his locker was well known - yet he consistently got Akira’s letters, and sought him out to deliver them personally, when he could just as easily transfer them to Akira’s locker instead without needing to speak to him.
There was the fact that because he was student council vice president, Akechi had access to everyone’s locker in case anyone forgot their key, and that meant the ‘misplaced letters’ probably weren’t misplaced at all.
There was the fact that all of these minor things, while not suspicious on their own, combined together and gave Akira a very late revelation.
“Mona,” Akira whispered shakily, “I think Akechi likes me.”
Morgana gave him a look like he thought he was stupid.
Akira shuffled the letters in his hands - he found himself reading them obsessively from time to time, trying to find the identifying marks and slip ups - finding one that he earmarked because it resonated with him, intensely:
[“Poets often speak of love as a thing that burns.
This is far from the butterflies and flushed cheeks of romance, but nevertheless it sears me to the bone, leaves my flesh and soul blackened and flaking into foul ash.
I look upon you and feel as if I am enveloped in the fire in your eyes.
The agony of my skin crackling and fat dissolving as I behold your visage is unbearable, and yet the thought of never feeling it again is more unbearable still.
It is a horrendous paradox: this pain drives me mad, yet I welcome it;
and I could never wish you undue suffering, yet in darker hours I pathetically hope that perhaps someday you too might burn.
It is impossible, for I know what I express is loathsome to the point of revulsion.
But if some cruel twist of fate sent you down the same hideous path as I, if we could share in that agony--
then perhaps as we were reduced to char together, I could find solace in it.
To reach such an end with you would be the sweetest way to cease what my life has become.
But it is a fool's wish.
You could never share such repulsive thoughts, and I shall burn to nothingness alone.”]
This letter always struck him as so lonely.
And Akechi… he always came across as such, to Akira.
He was surrounded by adoring fans, but there was a cold bubble around him. He kept everyone at arm’s length with that fake personality, huddling away from hands of friendship with suspicious eyes and a guarded heart.
The only time he seemed real was when he was butting heads with Akira, ready and eager to rush into a verbal fight with him, to draw the first metaphorical blood; when his fake smile twisted into a petulant scowl and his eyes glittered with fiery challenge when Akira got under his skin; when he was supervising Akira’s punishments, and advised him softly, in a roundabout way: ‘you can’t please everyone, Kurusu-kun, you need to be more selfish-’
Yet, he was shy with his heart, wasn’t he? Even now, he was hiding behind the safety of anonymity. Did he think Akira would be repulsed? Or maybe he was scared of it being reciprocated. That was the feel he got from some of his letters-
[“While the distance between us eats away at me, the thought of being close to you engulfs me in a panic.
I cannot reveal myself to you, because I would feel humiliated before you.
Without even trying, you have reduced me to a helpless wreck, scrabbling on my knees for the crumbs you unwittingly throw my way.
I am terrified of what more you could do to me if you knew my identity.
Would you withhold your presence and leave me to starve,
or even worse, offer me more?”]
“So, I can’t be direct,” Akira murmured, “He’ll pretend it’s not him.”
He smiled, tapping his mouth with one of the letters (letting his lips linger over the words of: [“A moment, a year, a lifetime is too brief for all the ways I desire you”] ). The solution was, actually, incredibly simple.
It was time to flex his non-existent poetry skills.
“Kurusu, what’s with this mess?”
Akira looked up from the small fortress of books he was half-buried under in his study booth, barely having enough room to write in the abominably cramped space. Leaning against the booth’s partition with a relaxed, casual air, Akechi scrutinised the gathered books with an unreadable look.
“I’m brushing up on my poetry skills,” Akira said, leaning back in his seat and twirling his pen expertly between his fingers, “Can’t you tell?”
“...poetry,” Akechi repeated after a very pregnant pause.
“I’m bad at it,” Akira said, offering that as a pithy excuse. Then, innocently, “Are you any good at it, Akechi?”
Akechi’s gaze snapped to him with a laser focus, his shoulders drawing up taut - before he relaxed, an amused smile in place.
“Of course I am, Kurusu,” he chided playfully, “Though, I’m surprised you confessed your ineptitude so readily. Are you really that bad?”
“I’m abysmal,” Akira confessed with no shred of shame, “I never saw any point in it, honestly, until…”
Akechi seemed very invested in this topic, “Until…?”
Outwardly, Akira was casually composed, but internally he could feel his heart start hammering a rapid tempo against his sternum, ready to smash through the flimsy bone. And, man, wasn’t that a sign he’d been devouring one too many of his admirer’s love confessions, that his thoughts instantly twisted to such a visceral description?
“Well, recently, I’ve been getting these love letters…” Akira began slowly.
Akechi looked disinterested, but his body language told another story. Despite leaning on the booth’s partition, his posture was tense, fingers clenched over the top edge of the partition so hard, Akira would be surprised if the knuckles weren’t white beneath his gloves. His gaze was so piercing Akira felt like he was being x-rayed.
“Why should I care about your love letters,” Akechi said a bit too flatly.
“And these letters,” Akira continued blithely, “are really intense and graphic. The first one I got made me blush, and so did the ones after that, to be honest...”
Something flickered in Akechi’s gaze, his fingers flexing on the partition as he took in a sharp, barely there inhale. Akira met his gaze head on, still twirling his pen, keeping his expression entirely blank. The pause between them felt heavy and electrified, and finally, Akechi was the one to look away first, his eyes snagging on the cramped notes Akira had been toiling over before he was interrupted.
“Does it make you uncomfortable?” Akechi asked, “The letters?”
“I like them,” Akira said, still watching Akechi, “I read them a lot.”
“Oh?” Akechi looked at him from under his eyelashes, and there was - Akira saw it, a quiver of vulnerability in his expression, one quickly clamped down on. Akechi’s expression was too still, too blank, to be natural.
it’s definitely him, Akira congratulated himself, i fucking called it.
“Yeah,” Akira winked at him, “Especially the naughty ones~”
Akechi jolted backwards like he’d been stuck with a cattle prod, a rush of pink hitting his cheeks, “Kurusu, you- that is too much information- ”
“You wanted to know,” Akira said cheekily, logging away that snapshot of blushing Akechi. It was surprisingly very cute, considering he was the one who wrote that depraved shit, “Anyway, long story short, it made me interested. So, here we are.”
Akechi huffed, crossing his arms and looking down his nose at Akira, “You’re learning it because someone is writing you dirty poetry? Kurusu…”
“I’m surprised you’re not threatening to confiscate said dirty poetry,” Akira said pointedly.
Akechi rolled his eyes, “So long as you don’t whip it out in public, I don’t care. Besides, I have bigger fish to fry than keeping your virtue pure.”
yeah, like soiling my virtue, Akira thought, tapping his pen against the edge of his desk.
“You know,” Akira said, “You can call me Akira, if you want.”
“I- what?” Akechi stammered out comically, clearly taken off-guard, and quickly coughed to cover his mistake; “I mean- where did that come from?”
“I’ve been thinking about stuff,” Akira said vaguely, recalling all those acts of kindness Akechi did for him under the guise of indifference or friendly antagonism. In fact, maybe the whole ‘Kamoshida’ thing was Akechi’s way of being nice; of wiping Akira’s undeserved negative reputation clean by replacing it with something overwhelmingly good instead, even if it backfired horribly.
Man, Ann had him figured out so fast.
“I… see,” Akechi said, “I’ll think about it.”
Not a no.
Akechi was staring at him now, his gaze dissecting, like Akira was some bizarre puzzle he was struggling to find the solution for. He didn’t look away from it, just calmly scrutinised Akechi in turn, tapping a steady tempo against the edge of his desk. He wondered what Akechi was thinking.
“...remember to tidy this mess once you are finished here, Kurusu,” Akechi finally said, his tone quiet and something else, “Otherwise you will find yourself organising the library as punishment for your sloppiness.”
“I left a mess once,” Akira protested, but Akechi was already walking away, vanishing behind the partitions that separated the library’s study booths.
“This would be easier if you just confessed to me like a normal person,” Akira muttered under his breath, and got back to work.
The next letter Akira received was two days later - and incredibly raunchy.
“Holy shit,” he whispered, reading only the first few lines before he hastily folded it shut and held it close to his chest, his face uncomfortably warm and his gut twisting with a mix of mortification and excitement. Holy shit.
([“Sometimes I see you at school and I can't even make it to the nighttime.
Sometimes you overcome me so thoroughly that I have to rush into a stall in the bathroom,
hard and aching as I unzip my uniform pants and stroke myself quickly, punishingly, to release.
I wonder if you have ever come into the bathroom then,
i f you have ever been in the stall next to me, inches away from where I am biting my fist to keep from
moaning,
whimpering,
screaming,
your name-”])
Did Akechi do that after running speaking to him in the library two days ago? After Akira told him he could use his first name?
Traitorously, his brain conjured the fantasy of Akechi, so flustered from the exchange, but so hot and bothered too and- ahhh no abort, abort! He is in public!!
“Ohhh, this is dangerous. This is so, so dangerous,” Akira said to himself, giddy with - something. He was feeling that adrenaline rush, like from when he and Akechi confronted Kamoshida, sending pleasant tingles rushing through his nerves and right down to his belly. He very carefully slipped the letter in his pocket, telling himself he’ll enjoy it later.
And, before he closed his locker, he left a letter of his own in there, labelled ‘To My Secret Admirer~’
The following week ended up being a little - strange.
The love letters kept coming, filthier than the last, with a slight incoherent slant like they’d been written in the afterhaze of a really good wet dream. Akira supposed he should count himself lucky the letters didn’t come with any suspicious stains to add to the mood. His admirer had some class, thankfully.
Juxtaposed to this, Akechi became weird around him.
It wasn’t obvious at first, but Akira noticed that he would give him piercing, intense stares when he thought he wasn’t looking, or fumble over some of his insults or stay constantly out of arm’s reach. Usually when they really got into their arguments, they would be chest to chest snarling at each other - so the abrupt social distancing was immediately obvious.
But why? Did he find Akira’s return love letter weird? Akira knew he had it, since it had vanished from his locker.
He sighed and leaned back in his seat, staring up at the cloudy sky as he mulled over the weirdness that was his love life on the school rooftop once again. He was absolutely, one hundred percent certain it was Akechi sending him those letters, but now a niggle of doubt was tiptoeing through his mind. What if it wasn’t?
No, it had to be. Everything added up to it. Maybe he was just shy? Akechi could dish out really filthy, sexually charged love letters that flirted with the line of legality, but didn’t know what to do when it was reciprocated? Not that Akira attempted to match his visceral passion, but he thought he did a bang up job in making it clear that he would happily accept his affections in person if he revealed himself.
Ah, maybe that was it. Akechi was probably twisting himself into knots about whether or not to come forward, all the while violating his locker with hypersexualised love letters in his pent up frustration. Maybe he was even feeling jealous at the idea of Akira accepting someone’s advances for once… even though that someone was Akechi himself.
“Why is Akechi so stupid?” Akira asked Mona, “He overthinks things too much.”
“Meow,” Mona replied.
“Sounds about right,” Akira said agreeably, scooping Mona up and kissing him on his nose, “You’re so smart, Mona~”
“Mrrr!”
“Kurusu.”
“Gah!”
Akira almost launched right out of his seat at Akechi’s voice directly behind him, and twisted around to see his rival/secret admirer standing there was a grim frown and a plain envelope clenched in a white-knuckled hand.
oh, Akira thought, he definitely heard the stupid comment.
“What’s up?” Akira said casually, still cuddling Mona to his chest with open shamelessness, “You here to tell me the roof is off-limits again?”
“The roof is off-limits to students,” Akechi said dutifully, slowly walking those last few steps that took him directly in front of Akira’s seat, “No. I see no point in scolding you about that. I am here to… I am here to give you this.”
He held out the envelope. It looked like the one that all of his love letters came in. Plain. Utilitarian. No name on the front.
Akira eyed him as Mona jumped out of his arms.
“What’s this?” he asked, feigning obliviousness as he took the envelope, “You issuing detentions by letter now?”
Akechi said nothing. He crossed his arms over his chest, his fingers curled tight into his sleeves at the biceps. His jaw was clenched and his eyes squinted, like he was trying to will Akira into another dimension through the power of his mind alone. It was a very mixed signal Akira was getting right now. Was he confessing to him or planning his murder?
well, as his letters showed, both are one in the same for him, Akira thought wryly.
“Okay, okay, I’ll read,” he sighed, and carefully opened the envelope and pulled out the letter within.
It had only one sentence written on it:
[‘I like you -- Goro’ ]
Akira stared.
Compared to the lengthy, eloquent letters he got before, this seemed very lacklustre - except Akira knew Akechi, and knew that him physically handing a letter over to him stating something so emotionally vulnerable so bluntly was the height of bravery for him. He understood now why Akechi was standing there looking like he was bracing himself for a decapitation.
“Wow,” Akira said blankly, too stunned for words.
“Is that all you have to say?” Akechi snapped acidly, twin spots of colour rising high on his cheeks, “Wow!?”
“Hey, wait- I’m just- processing!” Akira yelped. Seeing Akechi was ready to lose his nerve and bolt off, he quickly blurted; “I like you too!”
Akechi quivered in place, flushed and angry.
“I like you a lot,” Akira continued a lot more calmly, “I mean, I always thought you were hot and an asshole, but it turns out I’m into hot assholes that write psychotic love poems, so… yeah. I liked it. Like you, I mean.”
Akechi stared at him for a long moment, his palpable fury easing into something more taut and brittle. His jaw worked silently for a moment, before finally he said stiltedly; “Your letter said that you would… accept. My affections.”
“I told the truth,” Akira said firmly.
Akechi scrutinised him. He had taken a leap of faith, knowing the possibility existed that Akira’s love letter could have been a sting operation to draw out an unwanted secret admirer, to name and shame and crush his heart beneath his heel. But, Akechi also knew Akira, and he knew that he was an adrenaline junkie who probably shouldn’t be trusted to pick his own boyfriends, and wasn’t cruel enough to do something like that anyway.
“I accept your affections,” Akira added, for good measure, when Akechi continued to say nothing, “I really do. I’m not trying to trick you or anything. I accept, uh, this?”
Akechi remained silent.
Akira tried not to fidget in the awkward silence that pulled between them, stretching and stretching until he felt like he was almost vibrating in his chair. Just when Akira felt like he was about to buckle under the weight of the oppressive silence, Akechi abruptly smiled a crooked, mean little smile, his eyes heavy-lidded.
“Akira,” Akechi said, practically purring the syllables, “You’re such a fool.”
“Wha- hey, I am not,” Akira indignantly protested, only to stutter to a halt when Akechi stepped closer, close, looming over him where Akira was still seated, his eyes glittering with something dark and unspeakable and very very exciting.
“You accept ‘this’, but you don’t even know what ‘this’ is, do you?” Akechi murmured, reaching out to gently press his fingers underneath Akira’s jaw, ensuring they maintained eye contact, “What do you think I want, Kurusu?”
“Well,” Akira’s throat felt like sandpaper, his voice husky, “If your letters are anything to go by, you either want to fuck me or eat me.”
“I can multitask,” Akechi purred, leaning down until they were almost nose to nose. His fingers skimmed along the sharp cut of Akira’s jaw, until his palm pressed against his cheek, a little cold, “I can do both.”
Akira’s heart did a complicated backflip that didn’t feel medically healthy in the slightest. He didn’t know if it was from nerves or sheer excitement.
“Are we boyfriends now?” Akira blurted just as Akechi moved in to kiss him, and immediately closed his eyes because that hadn’t been what he wanted to say at all.
He felt Akechi draw back a little - in rejection or surprise, he didn’t know; “What?”
“Are we boyfriends now?” Akira repeated, opening his eyes to see Akechi looking beyond bewildered, “I mean, you’re right. I don’t know what this is. Is this a relationship or a ‘wham, bam, thank you, ma’am’ arrangement?”
“...I thought it was obvious,” Akechi said, sounding a little lost.
“I’m not psychic,” Akira reminded him, “I don’t actually know what goes through that brain of yours despite you thinking otherwise.”
Akechi began to look a little discomforted, his gaze skirting away before snapping back to Akira. His hand slid from his cheek to rest on Akira’s shoulder instead, his thumb lifting to brush just below the pulse point in his throat.
“What do you think I want?” Akechi asked, because he was a little weasel like that.
“I think you want us to be boyfriends, but you’re too scared to take the plunge, so you just want to keep it all physical instead,” Akira said bluntly, “I read your letters. They were pretty obvious about it.”
Akechi frowned.
“So,” Akira reached up, hooked his fingers into the front of Akechi’s blazer and dragged him down, “Are you a coward, Akechi? You gonna run away from me because it’s too scary to be boyfriends with me?”
That did the trick. Akechi’s eyes flashed, his teeth bared in a savage smile as he gritted out; “I’ll never run away from you.”
“Then ask me,” Akira purred, “Go on, do it. Ask me, coward.”
“Akira,” Akechi all but snarled, “ Will you go out with me?”
“Yes,” Akira smiled, “I will, Goro.”
They stayed like that for a long moment, locked in a charged staring match. Then, slowly, Goro exhaled and leaned in that little bit more, his fingers clenching into the short hairs at the nape of Akira’s neck as his lips hovered a mere inch from his.
“If you tell anyone about those letters,” Goro muttered, “I’ll end you.”
“Only if you keep writing them for me,” Akira said, his voice barely above a whisper, “They’re hot as hell.”
“You’re such a freak,” Goro said, but the words were rough and fond and hungry.
“So are you,” Akira countered, and he dragged him in that little last inch and kissed him senseless.