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It was autumn when Goro learned of it.
"He kept it," the herald of earth-shattering news told him, not looking up from the tea she brewed them both, "He always kept it."
Goro said nothing. He stared at Haru to look for the tells - her lip twitched when she lied, a tiny one, barely noticeable. Her mouth was pressed into a thin, bloodless line, her eyes exhausted and cold, yet heavy with empathy. She understood and accepted the twisted reality she informed him of.
"I have it. The glove," she continued in a softer tone - gentle, "Do you want it back?"
Goro managed to unclench his jaw to answer, breathless and raw; "Akira is the one who has to return it."
Pity flickered in Haru's eyes; "Akechi…"
"No," Goro said, and it was a curious thing, to die while still living. His heart still beat in his chest, he still breathed, but he had surely died in that moment too. The world continued - Haru continued, in this cosy cafe she ran- had ran- no , ran with Akira, who had stayed by his side while Goro didn't, who had been the one to call and say; "I'm sorry, but Akira is-"
Goro died.
Here's the thing: the five stages of grief was a scam.
Grief can't be compartmentalised into a neat timetable with recognisable tick boxes to hit at certain milestones. Grief was not tameable, or predictable, or gentle enough to ride a swell of burning emotion and ease into heavy acceptance. Grief was monstrous, and starving, and merciless. Grief was the blade that slew Goro and Akira both, but in different ways.
Grief also made Goro break Haru's teapot and immediately apologise for it afterwards. Grief made Haru sit there, composed and emotionless, as Goro wildly explained that she was mistaken, wrong, that this wasn't the first time Akira had them all fooled-
Grief made Haru indulge him. She waited him and his grief out.
Goro always did have a quick fuse but a long burn time. Akira compared him once to the prehistoric basalt eruption of the Siberian Traps that burned for two million years - "we'd be replaced by evolved sentient lizards before you let go of a grudge", Akira would joke - but the spark wouldn't catch. He was trapped in denial. He never reached the bargaining stage.
The five stages of grief was a scam.
"I'll find him," Goro said to Haru, "I'll prove it."
And Haru did not try to convince him otherwise. Her face like stone, she sipped her tea and did not look at him or the mess he made against her wall when he threw the teapot.
"Good luck," she told her tea.
Grief made people do awful, irrational things.
When Goro had been ten years old, his mother killed herself.
She did it in the bathtub. She slit her arms open from her dainty wrists to the inside of her elbows, neat, thin lines that opened up like a drooling red mouth. But it wasn't the blood loss that had killed her. She had fainted and drowned in the pink bathwater. Goro remembered how heavy she had been, when he tried pulling her out.
But he had accepted the reality the moment he saw it.
Perhaps subconsciously he foresaw it. Even as a child, her depression and suicidal tendencies had been obvious. Still, reality came swinging like an aggressive gutpunch the moment he had seen her. He saw her dead, he understood and accepted it - but still said "no" to it for weeks afterwards.
The five stages of grief was a scam.
Akira's death was far more abrupt and surprising. Goro felt betrayed, almost childishly so, when told the news. He did not internalise and accept it. It was simply wrong and yet another trick.
The gut punch missed him this time - a wild swing and miss that left Goro bewildered. He said “no” and meant it, so the reality of it didn’t sink in. After leaving Haru’s cafe, he didn’t go to a nearby park and scream to the heavens in stereotypical drama. He didn’t go to the nearest bar to drink himself into oblivion. He didn’t even sit in his car and pause to weep.
He went home. A modest apartment bought on the hefty wage of his new job - Shadow Ops, a nice, neat way for him to redeem himself for his crimes. Akira helped him pick it out, because Goro had been planning on just buying a shoebox of a place out of some ‘misguided self-flagellation’ (Akira’s words), and, of course, because it was Akira, he helped him decorate too-
Goro stood in the doorway to his apartment and didn’t enter. He could see the living area and the kitchenette from the doorway. The cat paw printed throw blanket Akira got him for his birthday years ago was still draped over the back of his sofa. His kitchen counter had a few of the cookbooks Goro had bought, that he had studiously read to try and match Akira’s curry making prowess. They had plans to meet up this weekend for him to embarrass himself in the kitchen for the thousandth time.
Every inch of his space was Akira. He couldn’t help it. As much as Goro enforced distance between them - gently shutting down Akira’s heartfelt confession, refusing to step closer than best friends because- because he had been too cowardly for anything more, watching Akira enjoy life working for Haru’s cafe - he still stayed within his orbit. He couldn’t help it. Akira was a star and Goro a lifeless husk of a rock that could do nothing but be tugged along by his gravity. He kept his distance, but he could never escape him.
He never considered Akira could just- just-
No, he’s not dead, remember? It’s a trick.
Goro was fidgeting with his gloves, tugging at the hem like Akira did - and he forced his hands to squeeze into fists, his breathing stuttering in his chest, and stepped inside his apartment.
About two years ago, Akira buried Mona.
Despite not being an ordinary cat, Mona’s lifespan had been about the same. Goro had observed from the sidelines how Mona’s muzzle greyed, how his gait grew stiff, how he slept more and more, grumbling and huffing like an old man, until the fateful day came and Mona passed in his sleep.
Goro remembered Akira calling him at two in the morning, in absolute tears, his normally calm veneer shattered beneath the hammer of grief. Goro had been out of his depth - bewildered that Akira called him before anyone else regarding Mona’s death - but had still leapt into his car in his pyjamas, coat haphazardly thrown on, and went to him.
Akira approached grief like it was something to batter down. Something to force through its paces as quickly as possible and to purge it from his system. He cried over Mona - he cried to the point where Goro got worried about dehydration - and buried him, and grieved, and then locked it all up. His brittle smile grew steadier, his mask smoothed out, until it was difficult to tell he had ever been grieving at all a month after Mona was gone.
Everyone else grieved in their own little ways. Futaba had a little Mona tribute in her room, Goro knew. A little model of Mona perched on top of her monitor. Yusuke painted him. The others… had their own ways, tucked away in the privacy of their lives. Goro didn’t really… he felt sad, but he never truly grieved. He felt like Akira did it hard enough for the both of them, and had tried not to feel guilty that he had been more composed and detached when compared directly to Akira sobbing his heart out.
Goro never knew how to approach grief, even though it consumed his entire life. When his mother had died, he had understood and accepted it even as he said “no” and fixed his gaze for a viable target. When Shido died in prison (suicide of all things, the irony was not lost on him), Goro felt… nothing. An apathetic disdain - worse than hatred. When Mona died, he felt sad, certainly, but the signs had been there for a while, and so the reality of it had been processed while Mona had been alive. Goro had been braced for impact, so to speak.
Grief was something to push aside - that was what Goro had learned to do.
But maybe Akira rubbed off on him. Because now, sitting in his apartment, holding the cat paw printed blanket he got him for his birthday, fidgeting with the hole where Mona had accidentally clawed it, Goro felt grief rise up like a burning lump in his throat. It felt like it was suffocating, swelling, until he was going to choke and gasp and maybe throw up. It was an awful, agonising, horrible emotion - and one that refused to budge, no matter how much he averted his eyes, ignored reality, and thought “this is a trick.”
It’s a trick.
It’s a trick.
It’s just a trick.
Ann visited him an indeterminable amount of time later.
Goro had moved from the sofa by that point. He had piled up everything that was Akira in the middle of his living room as some demented shrine when she let herself in. He gave her the keys years ago, after he and Akira had a large falling out that resulted in three months of cold shoulders and frigid silence on their end. He never regretted it until now.
“Goro?” Ann said very carefully, because he was standing in front of his Akira shrine staring at it like an insane lunatic, “What’s all this?”
“I’m thinking,” Goro replied.
Because if this was a trick, then there would be clues left behind, wouldn’t there? There had been clues last time, when he thought he shot Akira in the head, but Goro had been so smug and absolute in his victory that he hadn’t bothered to look for them. This time he’ll look, because the alternative was to sit on the sofa and let that burning, grief-filled lump choke him to death.
“...okay,” Ann said, and she moved around him and into the kitchenette.
Haru must’ve spoken to her, Goro thought absently, as he returned to gazing at his Akira shrine. He could envision her worriedly telling the others “Akechi isn’t taking it well”, because she said that straight to his face, “Akechi, you’re not taking this well.”
He broke her teapot then.
Goro prowled around his living room, tugging at his gloves, squeezing his fingers and wringing his hands - he needed to do something. There was no Metaverse to work through his frustration though, and Mitsuru had called him, her professional tone hiding a kernel of sympathy, that he was on “compassionate leave, until you feel ready to-”
Think, okay? There is a trick here, somewhere.
“Goro,” Ann’s voice broke through the sluggish fog his mind was caught up in. He jumped and almost tripped over his coffee table, turning to see her hovering warily by his sofa. She had a cup of tea in hand.
Tea. Everyone kept giving him tea, like they thought the sight of coffee would make him crumple into a ball of useless grief.
“What,” he said, and his voice sounded rusty.
“You’re exhausting me just watching you,” Ann said with a ghost of her usual humour, and she set the tea down on the coffee table, “Come on, sit down.”
Goro walked over and sat down. The cat paw blanket was still there, so he pulled it over his lap, fidgeting with it and staring at the tea. It was Akira’s mug, the paint a bit chipped from age - Futaba had painted the sloppy imitation of Joker’s mask, lumpy and not at all up to Yusuke’s artistic standards, but it had been Akira’s favourite mug regardless.
His stomach cramped sharply, like a knife had gone through it, so he looked at the blanket in his hands instead.
The hole that Mona accidentally clawed was a little bigger. He picked at the frayed threads. He needed to keep his hands busy.
“Goro,” Ann said very gently, “It’s okay to be sad.”
Why would he be sad? This was a trick.
“I’m fine,” he said, his voice still rusty.
Ann made a small noise, a little disapproving. They sat together in heavy silence, and Goro could feel that lump coming back, lodging hard in his throat. He could feel his absolution start to falter, the confident “it’s a trick” fading to “it has to be a trick” to “please let it be a trick”.
The five stages of grief was a scam.
Ann was eyeing his Akira shrine with a concerned twist to her mouth.
“Do you want to box these up?” Ann asked him softly, “I can help.”
“It’s fine.”
“Goro…”
“It’s fine,” Goro said again, and he stood up, carefully setting aside the blanket, “No. I don't know why I piled it up like this. Help me put them back.”
“Okay…” Ann said slowly, her eyes darting between the Akira shrine and him, like she was worried he’d do something drastic the moment he was unsupervised. But she got up from the sofa and helped him replace everything that was Akira back in his apartment. His spare clothes, his shoes, his films and books, the photo album, his mugs and his plates and his coat and scarves - including the one Goro got him for his birthday a few years ago, the Red Hawk one to match his Black Condor-
Weird, how that was the thing to drive it home to him.
Akira never went anywhere without that scarf, even in the summer. Out of habit, Akira still carried the Monabag, and he kept the scarf in there if it was too warm to wear. When he- when- that day, Akira had left Haru’s cafe only for a moment, left his bag with the scarf there, but never went back for it because-
If it was a trick, even then, he’d bring the scarf with him, but he didn’t, so-
It was stupid, how that small thing made it real.
He held the scarf, and the lump in his throat turned into a molten boulder in his chest, and he crouched in the middle of his apartment and held it tight, and Ann spoke to him softly, gently, and he gasped into the soft, worn fabric, faster faster-
oh im crying
His heart ruptured.
It was autumn when Akira died.
A random, nonsensical scenario too. It had been late at night and Akira was about to close up the cafe, when he heard suspicious noises outside. It was just like him, to rush into a situation the moment he heard someone in need of help - a direct mirror to what sent him into Goro’s life in the first place, except this time it violently ejected him from it.
Goro didn’t think of the details. He didn’t think how he had been out of town that day - mission with Shadow Ops - didn’t think how, if, maybe, he hadn’t been on a mission, if, maybe, he did his usual tradition of meeting Akira at closing to walk him home, if, maybe, he had been there-
But what ifs were stupid. He learned that long ago as a child.
He just didn’t think. Akira died, that was the only important detail. He died, and Goro didn’t know until he got back two weeks later, being out of contact. He had missed the funeral even - what a thing to miss - and Haru had called him as he was still unpacking from his return, his mind elsewhere - thinking about the upcoming weekend, where he and Akira made plans to catch up before he had left - she had called and-
Goro didn’t think.
Ann put him to bed, when grief’s crushing grip loosened enough for him to breathe without choking on tears. He couldn’t help but be envious how she was striding through this with her head held high and a compassionate focus. He told himself that she already had time to process - she went to the funeral, after all - but also Ann was just like that. She fearlessly approached grief and used it to be kind. She was less brittle than him and Akira both.
Goro felt like a giant fist had clenched into his insides and yanked them all out. It would’ve hurt less. Akira was everywhere in his apartment, in his thoughts, tangled up in his everyday life and habits - not an hour went by where he thought ‘akira said this’ or ‘akira did this’ or how they made many off-hand, silly plans for the future, even as they tiptoed around the elephant in the room that was their mutual feelings for each other. They stayed as friends, both wanted more, but fear kept them from taking that final step.
How did people endure grief like this?
This hurt worse than his mother. It cut so deep, enough that it felt fatal, and he laid in bed and stared at the ceiling, hearing the noise of his television as Ann stayed over. She was probably worried he’d do something drastic. Was planning something drastic - “Akechi, you’re not taking this well.”
How was he meant to take it?
Goro thought about his life without Akira in it. It probably wouldn’t be much different. A slight adjustment to his timetable, maybe, a bit more time to himself in the evenings - he had a support network, even if his bridges were burned with half of the Phantom Thieves. He had the Shadow Ops, and he knew they’d be breaking down his door in the weeks to come, if only to check he didn’t hang himself in the bathroom.
His thoughts shied away from that avenue. He felt too raw. He compartmentalised those darker impulses, untouched.
The truth was - a life without Akira was doable. He can adjust.
He didn’t want to adjust.
Goro thought about the five stages of grief - but it was a scam, really. Grief didn’t follow a neat timetable. He didn’t know what stage he was at, anyways.
Acceptance? He accepted his death, but it wasn’t a neat one. He felt hollow and sick all at once. Bargaining? To what, who? Denial? He accepted this reality without Akira in it, so he can’t be…
Goro curled up on his side and pressed his face against the scarf. Ann let him keep it as she ushered him into bed. He wouldn’t let it go anyway.
It was damp with his tears, and it smelled faintly of Akira’s cologne. A few more weeks and the scent would fade entirely, but maybe his mind would be kind and let him imagine it was still there. It was all in one’s cognition, if he believed, if he… believed…
Five years ago, Goro was told that Shido committed suicide.
He didn’t care to hear the details of it, except being grudgingly impressed the coward managed to do it in a jail cell. He had been informed in a very professional letter from the prison, had barely felt anything when reading it, until Akira came round with drinks and he got drunk.
Goro had cried, but he didn’t know about what. He didn’t love Shido - he barely hated him anymore, except in that distant, abstract way of hating something that no longer intruded on your life. But when he got drunk and Akira gently probed the topic, he found he still had the capacity to shed tears about it, even if the jumbled up emotions in his chest made it difficult to understand what he was crying over.
He remembered Akira tucking him into bed and smoothing back his hair. He remembered waking up the following morning with a pounding headache, a dry mouth, and itchy eyes. Neither of them spoke about that night, and Goro never spared another thought about his piece of shit father again.
This morning wasn’t like that.
Akira wasn’t here, for one. It was Ann, who gently nudged him out of bed because it was ticking too close to noon, and he sat on his sofa, lost and exhausted. She gave him tea. He sipped it. She tried giving him breakfast - toast, she wasn’t a cook either - and he just picked the bread apart until it was shredded crumbs. He felt awful. He felt sick. He wasn’t hungry.
“Maybe you should talk to your therapist,” Ann suggested mildly, as she watched him tear apart his toast as unenthusiastically as possible.
“I don’t see her anymore,” Goro rasped.
“Well, I think you should see her again.”
Goro said nothing. The toast was decimated so he picked at the hole in the cat paw blanket instead.
Ann stood up, “C’mon. Let’s go for a walk.”
Because Goro didn’t care anymore, he let her bully him into getting dressed. He felt strange detached from everything. Grief had swept through him, torn out everything, and now there was just an empty, hollow doll of himself stumbling through the motions. Ann took him outside. They went for a walk. He barely engaged with her or reality.
Eventually, they ended up in Inokashira park. Ann urged him to sit on the bench, joining him once he sat, and they stared out over the pond, watching ducks drift along the clear surface. It was autumn, so the leaves were golden, already littering the grass as the wind gently gusted them off their branches. It was cold, so Goro wore Akira’s scarf.
“I’m not gonna tell you how to feel,” Ann said suddenly, her gaze still fixed on the pond, “And I’m not gonna say I understand how you feel either, because I don’t. You and Akira… your relationship was different.”
Goro said nothing. He watched bright yellow ducklings trail after their parent along the bank of the pond.
“But you should know you’re not alone in this,” Ann whispered, and she paused to swallow thickly, blinking back her tears. She was still grieving, even if she concealed it behind a kind facade - maybe helping other people with it helped her. Goro didn’t know. “Okay?”
“...I broke Haru’s teapot when she told me,” Goro said.
Ann laughed, it was a ragged, watery thing, “I know. She told me.”
“I- I shouldn’t have done that.”
“You apologised,” Ann said, “It’s okay. She understood.”
Did she?
Haru had been tired, when she told him, distant almost. She hadn’t looked him in the eye, she kept gazing at her hands, or her tea, or just past Goro’s shoulder. She had been like weathered stone, cold, emotionless and calm. It had rankled Goro at that moment, that she delivered such news calmly and without expression - but. That was how she dealt with it. Haru had been much the same after her father died.
Easier to be distant from it all, than to drown in this awful, cold pressure. Grief was a deadly, insidious emotion, if you let it sink its claws in deep enough.
Goro twisted his hands together.
“I missed the funeral,” he said, quieter.
“Yeah,” Ann murmured, “That’s not your fault.”
The five stages of grief was a scam.
Goro didn’t know where he sat in that mythical timetable, anyway. Beneath the cool autumn sun, watching the ducks on the pond, and hearing families walk by them, Akira’s death seemed like an unreal thing. An event that happened in a nightmare, or something he read in a book. But it was real, disgustingly real, and Goro will be confronted with that reality day after day after day, never knowing if that swooping, missed-a-step feeling will ever leave him every time he thought about it.
He didn’t want to adjust to a life without Akira.
Again, his mind flickered to the day he found his mother in the bathtub. She hadn’t wanted to adjust either, and he felt nauseous and uncertain. He pushed those thoughts away, a rush of shame filling him to the very brim. Maybe Ann was right. Maybe he should reach out to his therapist again.
“We should…” he started, and Ann turned to him when he trailed off. He tried again, “I’m hungry.”
“Yeah, you just ripped your breakfast apart instead of eating it,” Ann joked, “You want crepes?”
There was a lump in his throat again, so he answered with a curt nod. Ann took his hand and stood up, helping him to his feet. He felt like gravity had increased by a thousand. Even just walking felt like a chore.
“It’ll be okay,” Ann murmured, “We’ll keep going, alright?”
Goro nodded, even though he felt uncertain. He had survived more fatal wounds than these, but this time there was no target or spite to help him focus. The future yawned out before him, devoid of Akira. It looked colourless.
But.
He pressed his nose into Akira’s red scarf, and closed his eyes.