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“—the trainer got into an accident and was hospitalized on last notice and because it’s a beginner group, there’s no one qualified enough to take over the Aikido demonstration—”
“...Mishima.”
“—so we’re short on one big main attraction. I’ve been frantically trying to organize something similar but I get declined left and right—hah, why does this feel so familiar?”
“Mishima.”
“Anyway, this is the only possible solution I could think of that doesn’t require an immense budget and still has some really good chances of working out because, it’s you that we’re talking about so it’s, like, guaranteed to work, right? So—”
“Yuuki!”
Mishima lets out a startled scream, which promptly causes Akira to let out a yelp on his own, too.
“S-sorry,” Mishima murmurs dejectedly after they’ve both calmed down.
Akira sighs and puts down the dirty dishes Sojiro left for him to assess Mishima once more.
The bags under his eyes give his exasperation at his current predicament more credibility, though the fact he went out of his way to visit Leblanc a few minutes before closing hours says something in itself. There’s a deep slouch to his posture too, one that Akira is more than familiar with.
“Before I answer any of this,” Akira begins, surreptitiously pushing the untouched cup of coffee he’d made closer to Mishima, “Why… exactly is the success of the culture festival so important to you?”
“A month ago I finally became the council vice president, Akira,” Mishima says incredulously. “It’s my first big chance to prove that I’m suited for this position. And if I fail this—”
Mishima makes a miserable sound from somewhere deep inside his chest.
Akira is tempted to say that no one will even notice if there’s an attraction less in the culture festival, that he’ll very much get to keep his precious position and, most importantly, why would he try to replace something like Aikido with this and what does it prove, but instead he pushes the cup of coffee a little to the side when Mishima’s forehead meets the counter dangerously close to it.
“Did you go to Makoto about this?” Akira asks.
“Didn’t, won’t, can’t,” comes Mishima’s muffled response. “Besides, I have to do this on my own for once.”
Him going to Akira with this proposition doesn’t really support that statement, but he won’t be so cruel as to point that fact out.
Mishima’s sense of self worth is… fragile, for the lack of a better word.
Even Akira has trouble navigating around that.
And as of now, he has very much on his own plate. Just a few hours ago the Phantom Thieves made him ask Akechi if he’d come to the culture festival, though Akechi still has to answer properly.
Waiting for the detective’s response is always a special agony in itself. Mostly because Akira has an even harder time figuring out the genuinity of Akechi’s responses over something as ambiguous as texting.
Akira isn’t as naive to believe that everything will go as well as he wants it to be, such a notion contradicting the churn in his gut that makes itself entirely too comfortable whenever Akechi talks about the future of the Phantom Thieves. It doesn’t change that the consequence of all of the Phantom Thieves’ admittedly reckless decisions over the last two months sit like a heavy weight on his shoulders.
Mishima’s proposal almost seems like a short time out from everything.
And it’s not like Akira could reject him—it’s in his nature, after all, helping if the sole condition is that he’s able to help in some sort of way in the first place.
He’s never denied someone whose troubles he could alleviate. Most of the time he isn’t even doing much.
And truth to be told, Akira's already been ready to roll up Mishima in his spare blankets and push a mug of hot chocolate into his hands the moment Mishima’s sorrowful form dragged itself across the wooden boards of Leblanc a few minutes ago.
It’s just the exact content of what Mishima wants from him that leaves Akira with fluttering hesitation.
He takes a deep breath and leans on the counter to level Mishima a serious look, who straightens like Akira’s about to tell him the secrets to becoming an actual Phantom Thief member.
He distantly wonders how Mishima got the position of vice president in the first place, and remembers that no one ever bothered applying to it since his entire stay at Shujin. Mishima must have really taken his chances with that application.
“So. A kissing booth.”
Mishima nods dutifully. “Yes.”
“And why me again? I don't think I'm the best person for this job.”
“Because you’re the leader of the Phantom Thieves?” Mishima asks more than says.
“That’s a terrible argument because no one knows about that except us.”
Mishima waves him off. “Doesn’t matter . You’ve just gotten that… aura around you, you know? Going from unassuming and plain to tall, dark and mysterious. I wish I knew how to do that because that’s basically the dream guy of any girl.”
Akira’s pretty sure he’s only gotten a little more fit through the gym and Metaverse exercises and nothing else, but Mishima just admitted another guy in his vicinity is attractive and that’s some character development he didn’t expect.
He raises an eyebrow. “I’m thankful to hear that, but I doubt the school shares the same perception. The people in my class still look at me like I’m going to rip their heads out when I stand up to answer a question.”
“That’s not what I—” Mishima makes another concerning sound that doesn’t go well with the pink hue on his face. “My point is that things did change. I think you just didn’t notice because you don’t interact with many people outside your friend group.”
“Why would I interact with anyone if they met me with nothing but prejudice?” Akira replies with barely concealed hints of bitterness.
Mishima winces.
“I can’t blame you for thinking so. I mean, I kinda contributed to it but… trust me when I say that the students have started to talk more positively about you.”
“Do they now?” Akira leans back, absentmindedly putting a hand to his chin.
It’s true that he doesn’t pay much attention to hushed whispers and looks thrown into his direction anymore. All they did was make him feel more miserable than he already was when first arriving in Shujin, so he’d been quick to keep to himself and a few, selected people that didn’t treat him like the scum of earth simply because of a track record they knew nothing about.
Have opinions on him actually undergone a change? If yes, then how so? And why? It’s not like Akira’s flaunting around the fact he’s the head of the Phantom Thieves.
Most of the time Akira feels more like an overworked single parent anyway.
As far as he’s concerned, he’s not doing anything conspicuous either. Even in PE classes he’s holding back, though Ann and Ruyji regularly reprimand him for deliberately slacking off when he could actually do so much better.
Akira just doesn’t want to attract unnecessary attention.
“If you were to be in charge of a kissing booth, you’d get a lot more people lining up than you could imagine,” Mishima says.
Akira sincerely doubts it, but he already made his mind up on helping Mishima out of his crisis even before this entire conversation started.
“I still think there are people better suited for it than me.”
Mishima perks up. “But does that mean you’ll do it?”
Akira nods slowly. He still doesn’t know why Mishima came up with the concept of a kissing booth, though he feels like any critique might shatter what Akira just managed to rebuild with his confirmation. “Sure. Kissing people can’t be too hard?”
Fuck. He hopes that didn’t come off as a question.
Might be good practice for mon aimé, Arsene drawls into his ear.
Akira fights off the heat creeping into his cheeks by coughing surreptitiously. He observes Mishima’s expression gain something impossibly wondrous. It reminds Akira of the face Yusuke makes whenever he puts an entire bowl of steaming curry in front of him.
“You’ll actually do it? Really?”
“Yes,” Akira says, twirling a lock. “Do you want me to write a contract?” he asks, unironically. “I could also—”
“Thank you!”
Mishima downright starts sobbing, and Akira’s suddenly glad he didn’t put Mishima’s coffee completely aside because it looks like the only thing preventing him from jumping over the counter and pulling Akira into something like a hug is the fact that he’d get coffee all over them, and Mishima can’t afford to offend his idol in that way.
“Akira,” Mishima cries out.“ Thank you. Seriously. You’re a career and life saver. What did I do to deserve you? I could probably maybe certainly even kiss your right now—”
The clearing of a throat breaks Akira’s attention away.
He swivels his head around to see Akechi standing in the door frame, as impeccable and polite as ever. There’s a certain strain to his detective smile that rings some distant alarm bells.
Akira's been too busy stealthily gaining as much distance from Mishima as the limited place behind the counter allows that he didn’t hear the bell chime.
“Pardon me,” Akechi sweetly lilts, eyes flickering between them. “Am I interrupting something?”
“No,” Akira hisses over Mishima’s meager yes.
Akira doesn’t know if Akechi heard Mishima or not, but he’s already walking into Leblanc like Sojiro passed him ownership just this morning.
Mishima is busy trying to erase any trace of him crying to preserve a sense of dignity. It seems like he’s caught on that Akechi won’t immediately leave and offers a brittle smile instead.
“Me and Akira were just discussing some school related things.”
“You and Akira, huh?” Akechi puts his briefcase down onto the counter directly next to Mishima. It connects with a heavy thud. Mishima flinches.
Akira only now notices that Mishima is actually occupying the seat even Sojiro has lovingly started referring to as the detective boy’s chair, and Akira doesn’t know why that realization makes him sweat a little more.
Akechi’s eyes form sharp crescents.
“I can always come back another time, if you want me to.”
Mishima opens his mouth, only to close it when Akechi puts his chin in his hand, leaning closer, smile still in place. It grows bigger when Mishima scoots a little backwards in his seat, clearly intimidated by the sheer radiance of Akechi’s friendliness threatening to light the entire place on fire.
“No need for that. I-I can also come back another time.” Mishima gulps, finally averting his gaze. “I was— uhm, I mean, I’m done anyway.”
“Perfect,” Akechi chirps without missing a beat like he didn’t offer Mishima the exact groundwork of his sentence.
Ren isn’t sure if he’s ever seen Akechi happier.
Once Mishima is out of the door and Akechi has reclaimed his rightful place, he lets out a heavy sigh, fingers working on loosening his tie.
Akira smiles. It’s the telltale sign of Akechi getting comfortable. Not completely shedding the appearance of integrating perfection, but allowing a sliver of humanity to peek through.
A reminder that no matter how high and mighty Akechi likes to play, he’s still a teenager trying to navigate around the adult world, much like Akira.
“You know it’s technically past closing hours,” Akira points out, body already moving on autopilot to make the detective’s usual cup of coffee.
It’s a comfortable routine, one that Akira secretly treasures.
“Didn’t seem a problem for him,” Akechi smoothly remarks. He pushes Mishima’s cup aside for good with a delicate tip of his finger, eyeing it with no little amount of disdain. “Besides, your choice of words and the fact you’re already preparing my coffee would beg to differ.”
Akira shrugs. “Guilty as charged.”
He looks up from his current task when Akechi doesn’t immediately exploit his admittance with teasing remarks of finest cruelty. “Rough day?”
“You could say so. My employee has been breathing down my neck more than usual.”
The smile stretching the lines of Akechi’s mouth looks off kilter.
“Nothing I won’t be able to manage, though, I assure you.”
“I’m sorry,” Akira reflexively says. “That must be rough, considering you already have such a busy schedule.”
Akechi shakes his head. “Don’t apologize for something you’re not responsible for.” He fixes Akira with a stern look, and Akira bites back another apology about to slip out.
They’ve already gotten into a few, light arguments about what Akechi likes to call his bad habit.
Akechi sighs. “I do appreciate your concern, however.”
Akira hopes he does. Being taken care of in a more mundane way or simply being cared about has never seemed like something Akechi’s used to.
He’d nearly jumped out of his skin that time in the cafe where Akira put his fingers in his hair, and Akira’s never forgotten the brief flash of pure hostility sharpening the red of his eyes into something dangerous before it was forcefully tamed.
Silence reigns for a while. The tension in Akechi’s shoulder matches the rigid line of his spine, though it crumbles a little when Akira finishes pouring his cup, the familiar smell fully reaching their nose.
“So, Kurusu-kun. What were you and—pardon, was it Minato—discussing?
Akechi stares at him from over the cup. Akira gets the vague impression that the question is less innocent than it appears.
His cheeks warm at the intensity of Akechi’s gaze boring into him, trapping him behind his own counter. How ironic.
“Something regarding the cultural festival,” Akira answers, forgetting to correct Mishima’s name.
“Ah. I’ve actually come here to tell you that I will make an appearance.”
“You didn’t come because of my company?” Akira pouts, chest warming when Akechi freezes for a split second before regaining his composure.
“You think too highly of yourself.”
“You could have just texted you’re attending,” Akira quips back.
He cracks a small smile when Akechi frowns like he’s legitimately forgotten that option existed.
Cute.
“The line to Yongen Jaya was on my way home. I merely figured I’d stop by in person and get a coffee.”
Akira exaggerates an eye roll. “Whatever helps you sleep better at night, detective.”
He hides a snicker behind his hand at the light scowl Akechi’s unable to keep off his face. His hair's a little disheveled from the wind outside, framing his face in more chaotic strands than usual. Akechi hasn’t bothered fixing them yet aside from a few careless brushes through his hair.
It’s a good look on him. Less manufactured.
Akechi raises his cup of coffee. “Delicious as always, Kurusu-kun,” he says. “Though I’d expect nothing less, of course.”
There’s something warm in the cadence of Goro’s tone that reduces the witty response forming in Akira’s throat into a soft hum.
“I’m glad. Thank you.”
Akechi returns his smile a few seconds later, and as they delve into mindless conversations after Akira turns the open sign to closed, the kissing booth is forgotten.
“You seem to be having quite a lot of fun, Haru,” Yusuke says. “You did mention you were looking forward to this.”
Haru smiles like a beacon, effortlessly outshining everyone else in their vicinity. “I want to go around with everyone and eat at the refreshment stands.”
“It’ll be a nice change of pace,” Futaba agrees from where she pressed herself into Akira’s side.
He can’t blame her, not with this many people around. The rumor about Shujin being involved with the Phantom Thieves has spread like a wildfire. The school is brimming with people because everybody wants to get close to the supposed origin of what has kept the media on their toes for a few months now, to maybe catch at least a glimpse, as unlikely as they know it is .
Akira gently nudges Futaba’s shoulder, to which she answers with an exaggerated pout into his direction.
He flicks her forehead and enjoys her small cry of betrayal.
Makoto clears her throat. “Shall we… head off to the stands then?”
“Let’s!!”
“C’mon, Aki,” Ann whispers next to him, encircling his left arm as everybody else disperses into smaller groups. “I wanna check out all the sweets first. I will not regroup with everyone before I’ve tasted each and every delicacy at least once.”
Akira sends her an apologetic smile. “I’d really aid you in your honorable quest, but I’m afraid I actually have to be somewhere.”
Ann loosens her hold on him.
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“I’m helping with a stall,” Akira vaguely says.
Ann’s initial confusion quickly turns into suspicion. “A stall,” she says, practically dissecting the word in her mouth.
Akira tries not to shrink under her increasingly scrutinizing gaze. He should have probably told her he forgot something at home. Then again, there’s no guarantee the Phantom Thieves won’t find his stall later on, and he’s always been bad at lying to his friends. Especially when it’s about something trivial.
“Akira, what are you not telling me?” Ann sweetly asks, and Akira gulps when her fingernails start digging into his arm.
“I’ll show you,” he croaks. “Is that ok?”
“Alright. But no tricks!”
“No tricks.”
“With helping,” Ann whispers into his ear, ”I don’t assume you mean putting customer’s money into the jar while someone else does the, you know, actual job, right?”
When Akira doesn’t answer, Ann lets out a scandalized gasp.
“Oh my god. You’re actually running a kissing booth.” She leaves his side to skip ahead and assess the stall itself.
It’s fairly simple, which Akira is grateful for because he doesn’t need neon signs and huge kissing lips accompanying him during what will be his personal hell for the next hours.
It’s in a bit of a secluded place too, but not enough to be completely hidden from view. Akira wouldn’t have minded if it were at the back of the school where no one would come because as he’s reading through the price tags Mishima already set up, it slowly dawns on him that he’s going to be kissing a couple of strangers today when he’s never even kissed someone before.
Not even the plushies he’d never been allowed to have.
He’s never been allowed plushies.
“50¥ for a quick peck… 100¥ for a standard kiss…. price increases depending on the length of the kiss… wait, who is even going to keep track?” Ann proceeds to unashamedly read the options out loud and Akira’s close to just covering her mouth. “250¥ for tongue—oh my. Is that even allowed?”
“I had to help Mishima,” Akira says as if it’s the universal answer to all of her questions.
“Wait. Help Mishima with kissing people? You’re both running this? Or are you like, I don’t know, giving him advice while he’s—”
“God, no,” Akira quickly says. “Some type of Aikido show got cancelled and he took it upon himself to replace it with something else.”
“And that’s why he asked you to run a kissing booth,” Ann says, full of skepticism.
Akira only shrugs at her. He’d already come to terms with Mishima’s weird way of thinking.
Eyeing the booth once again, Akira gets the distinctive impression that he’s not going to contribute much to the festival. In comparison to a martial arts show, this is nothing.
Whatever makes Mishima happy, he guesses.
“Well, then let's get this show started, shall we?” Ann chirps.
She comes back a minute later with an extra chair in her arms, putting it next to the only other one and pushes it just enough into the background to make clear that she isn’t going to be the one offering up to get kissed into oblivion.
Demonstratively sitting down, she crosses both her legs and her arms, looking at him with the sort of expectancy that has Akira accepting that she’s not going to leave until she’s gotten her fair share of second hand misery through him.
Once they’re seated and Ann stole a few cups of juice from the nearest drinking stall by batting her eyelashes one too many times at the poor guy, she props her chin in her hand, giving him a not so subtle once over.
“So, Akira. Have you ever kissed someone before?”
“I don’t even know how it’s supposed to contribute to the culture festival,” he murmurs, fiddling with his locks as he scans the hallway.
It’s already fuller than he expected. Luckily, no one seems to be paying any attention to them
“Do people actually pay you to kiss them, or do they pay so they can kiss you ?”
“Good question. I have no idea,” Akira confesses. “A mix of both? I’ll just kind of wing it I guess.”
“So you really never kissed someone,” Ann slyly says.
“N-no,” Akira stammers, growing entirely too warm in his blazer.
“Does Mishima know about this? I bet he doesn’t. We can’t tell him or else his world view will be shattered beyond repair. But come on, not even the detective?”
Akira nearly chokes on the sip he’s been trying to take from his cup. Ann pats his back like she’s not responsible for it.
“Ann,” Akira half hisses, half coughs because he’s still trying not to drown from an overdose of orange juice in the wrong pipe.
“I saw you guys interact like twice, not counting the time we met Akechi in that hallway, but I swear on both instances it felt like a movie. You know, the kind where everything slows down and the noise dulls out and the camera zooms in and you only have eyes for each other and there’s a tension in the air that is practically—”
“It’s nothing like that,” Akira finally manages to wheeze out.
Arsene cackles. Are you sure?
He pushes the cup of orange juice away, feeling entirely too betrayed by everyone and everything.
“We’re good friends, nothing more.”
Akira’s incredibly thankful that Ann isn’t meeting his relationship with Akechi with as much hostility as some other members of the Phantom Thieves, but he’s starting to think he prefers that kind of attention rather than this. He knows how to defend himself in the other scenario, at least.
It kind of seems like a lost cause with how Ann demonstrates her superiority by raising a single eyebrow.
“Sweetheart, you do realize how stupid you sound right now, don’t you?”
Akira groans and buries his face in his hands “Is it that obvious?”
“You guys stay up until 3AM to talk about the different stages of civilization that might exist outside of our planet,” Ann dryly says. “It’s embarrassingly obvious.”
“You don’t stay up until 3AM with Shiho to talk about that?” Akira fires back.
“We talk about what name we’d give our pet giraffe if we’d get one. Shiho suggests Pumpkin, but I’m actually more fond of—hey!” Ann huffs indignantly. “We’re not here to talk about me and Shiho. I’m trying to solve your love crisis.”
“I don’t need any solving,” Akira mutters. “How do you even know about everything?”
“Futaba told us.”
He groans. “Of course it’s Futaba. Wait, what? Us?”
Ann twirls a lone pigtail around her finger. “We have a group chat dedicated to you,” she says, as nonchalantly as one would say the sky is blue.
“What do you mean you have a group chat dedicated to me—”
“Anyway,” Ann stresses heavily, stretching her arms above her head and giving absolutely no room for discussion, “I’m going to look for your future husband now. I can’t believe he’s not going to be your first kiss. I also can’t believe I’d witness a virgin running a kissing booth.”
There are too many things wrong with that sentence. Akira’s brain helps him only defend one aspect.
“I kind of blended the kissing part out,” he mumbles.
Akira grabs Ann’s wrist when she stands up. “Wait, are you actually serious? Why would Akechi even be here in Shujin?”
Ann lifts her other eyebrow. It ever so slowly climbs up to her hairline, and Akira’s suddenly hit with the revelation that they’re at the culture festival and he asked Akechi if he could attend just a few days ago and oh god Akechi is here, somewhere in Shujin academy and I’m running a kissing booth.
“Fuck,” Akira says. “Akechi is here and I’m running a kissing booth.”
Ann’s smile couldn’t be more smug. “He is. And I’m going to get him.”
“You most definitely won’t. ”
“Why not?” Ann pouts and tries crossing her arms, but Akira still hasn’t let go, too distrustful. He won’t put it past her to bolt at the next given opportunity.
“Because I’ll die of mortification if he sees me running a kissing booth,” Akira hisses. “There, are you satisfied?”
He doesn’t want to imagine the look of horror on Akechi’s face the moment he’d realize his rival is kissing a bunch of people in exchange for money like it’s his favourite pastime activity. No amount of explanation could salvage that impression.
“Very,” Ann purrs with a hint of Carmen in her voice and obediently sits back down again like nothing happened.
“Thank god.”
“But he’s not going to be your first kiss at this rate, right?”
His first kiss isn’t too important, Akira tries to tell himself. He definitely didn’t spend a good portion of his childhood thinking about a cute person whom he could share the embarrassing experience with, one that’d laugh with him rather than at him for the clumsiness he knows is going to make itself apparent as soon as he locks lips with another person.
“At this rate I’ll be kissing nobody, ” Akira grumbles. He rubs his temple. “We’ve been sitting here for about ten minuts already and everything we’ve gotten are odd looks.”
“That’s because we look like we’re running a debate club instead of a kissing booth,” Ann says, rolling her eyes.
Akira is about to tell her that Akechi is probably very much into that, but he doesn’t get the opportunity when Ann grabs his cheeks and pulls at them.
“You also look like a frightened kitten, hon. Loosen up.”
Akira wriggles his arms around in a show of purposeful exaggeration. He gives a triumphant smirk when Ann lets out a crack of a smile despite herself.
“You’re hopeless. Come on, up now.” She taps his shoulders. “I’ll help you.”
She yanks off his blazer first, throwing it aside like she has a personal history with it. Akira wonders if she’s going to remove his suspenders in the same brutal manner (he’s actually quite fond of them); but she shakes her head, saying that this casual but still classy look is exactly what she’s trying to go for.
Ann closes in to drag her hands through his hair, messing up his curls a little. Akira’s convinced his hair must truly look like a bird’s nest now and doesn’t see the sense in trying to make everything worse, but she seems satisfied once she steps back and if Akira trusts her in one matter aside from being able to sniff out the best deals for sweets, then it’s her sense of fashion.
“Almost there,” Ann murmurs, reaching into her bag. She pulls out a lip gloss and winks at him. “Don’t worry. It’ll hold through quite a lot of kisses and I’ll leave it here for you to reapply.”
It doesn’t really reassure him. Not because he thinks it won’t hold, but rather because she makes it sounds like there are actually going to be that many kisses.
Akira still has a hard time believing people are going to give the booth even as much as a second glance.
Nonetheless he obediently holds still, pursing his lips a little when she smears the viscous substance on his lips. He’s never worn anything like this before, but when she pulls out a small hand mirror to show him the results, he decides he quite likes the faint shimmer to his lips.
Nothing drastic or anything that people will notice from miles away, but it’s there and something you unconsciously appreciate when looking at the whole thing.
Ann playfully boops his nose. “Keep the glasses or not?”
Akira kind of prefers his face with them, but he figures they’d get in the way of kissing people sooner or later.
“No glasses,” he answers.
She takes them off for him and runs her fingers down his chest to smoothen creases in his turtleneck he doesn’t see.
“Much better,” Ann purrs. “How do you feel?”
“Ready to go into war and die an honorable death, commander.”
Ann laughs. “Alright. One last thing.”
It’s his turn to raise an eyebrow when she rounds the stall to stand in front of it. Ann beckons him closer and Akira leans forward, more out of curiosity than trust.
“Everyone,” Ann suddenly calls out loud, “I’m about to kiss the most adorable person Shujin has to offer.”
Then, in a lower tone she quickly adds, “Sorry not sorry, Joker. Always wanted to do that.”
She yanks him close by his collar and kisses him square on the mouth.
It’s quick and unspectacular, Akira not being able to follow anything, and by the time it’s over and the warmth of her mouth leaves his, Akira’s still blinking and trying to process the events that just flashed by.
He doesn’t have time to interpret the low gasps and the gawking of people who stopped to look because Ann is entirely too smug, dropping coins into the jar with a coy expression that she usually spots in the Metaverse.
“Ann,” Akira hisses, hands flying up to his face to physically cool it down. He’s burning through his skin. He’s evaporating from the inside out.
He’s—
“Wha-what was that?”
“I’ll let Akechi have you, but definitely not your first kiss. Hah, you think he’ll come and hunt me down?” Ann gets a thoughtful look on her face. “He seems like the possessive type under all that prim and proper get up.”
“Ann—”
Akira makes a dying noise in his throat and she pets his curls soothingly. He knows Haru to be the straight forward person in the group, but he never expected such bluntness from Ann. And combined with the not so subtle jabbing about his feelings for Akechi—Akira just wants a hole to swallow him up so future generations will never even find his corpse.
“I’ll go and advertise your kissing booth now,” Ann cheerfully says.
She moves closer again. Blond hair tickles his face as she runs a perfectly manicured nail up the length of his throat, stopping right at the tip of his chin.
“Try to learn some things while you’re here. I really enjoy how flustered you are right now, but some other people might prefer someone with a more active response.”
Ann winks at him, and then she’s gone.
Akira presses both of his hands on his cheeks and tries not to scream.
Running a kissing booth is actually not so bad. He’s internally panicking the first time a few girls push a blushing one into the vicinity of the booth where he has to awkwardly acknowledge her presence, but it’s like Ann really managed to loosen some of his inhibitions because he finds himself smiling lightly to ease her into it.
Akira hates people being uncomfortable around him, and that takes priority over the mild sting of his own discomfort.
His first (technically second) kiss is short and sweet, nothing more than a peck on the lips. The girl looks like she’s going to pass out if he would have lingered a second too long.
Amazing how such little contact can do so much.
She drops more coins into the jar than she most likely intended to, but she’s already dragging along her group of friends with her head tucked in between her shoulders that Akira assumes this was a one-of-a-time thing and he’ll most likely never see her again.
As he sits back and resists the urge to wipe his mouth unless he plans on smearing lip gloss all over his lower face (though he will have to wash his mouth at some point because Ann reminded him that hygiene exists), he realizes that the girl didn’t say anything.
No slur, no insult. Just a small hello accompanied by an unsurprising amount of shyness.
Akira doesn’t get to contemplate long because another person shows up—not from this school, judging by his uniform—and the boy is just as flustered as the girl, but more confident in the way he leans in and puts a hand around Akira’s nape after he asks for permission.
And kissing people, Akira decides, isn’t as nerve wracking as he thought it’d be. Much less spectacular than fictional works make it sound like. There’s no firework exploding in his stomach, nor does liquid fire run through his veins in overwhelming amounts at the mere contact of a little skin.
You’re not kissing the right person, Arsene amusedly says, soothingly dragging his claws across Akira’s back to calm his fried nerves a little.
Can you let me do this in peace?
You’re too much fun to mess with, petit chenapan.
Most of the time the kisses barely last for even a second. Akira is unable to commit anything to memory because as soon as the other person is gone, it feels like they’re taking the reasons and feelings buried under the kiss with them, too.
All Akira feels are soft, chapped, small, large, rough, warm, dry lips against his, all fitting in different ways, all wanting the same, ephemeral thing.
More people than expected come. Akira feels a little bad that he’s essentially selling fabricated affection, but he hopes that everybody coming to him in various levels of confidence knows that what’ll happen isn’t something for eternity or anything that invites attachment of any sort.
It’s supposed to be a silly, little memory tucked away in the depths of one’s consciousness. Maybe even a precious one for those who think other people might never kiss them voluntarily.
The initial wariness making him rigid slowly seeps out of his shoulders with each customer. It almost feels like backseat driving—it’s him that’s kissing all the people (or letting himself be kissed), and every sensation and brief spark of something is short and yet lingers at the same time, making for a strange mix of feelings he can’t process in the increasingly shorter breaks he gets.
But it also feels a little like he’s merely watching all the different eye colors and shapes and skin tones and freckles and marks right before him, hyper aware of each shift in their expression.
There’s a distance between him and everyone else that he isn’t able to close, no matter how much he leans into the kisses.
It’s fun, though. Trying to find out how people tick, how they like to be kissed by their expression and posture and aura alone. If they want him to lean in and gently push their lips together, or if they prefer Akira to be lax so they can take the initiative and try everything out on their own and at their pace.
Akira does this when finding out what to say to Shadows to coax them into becoming his masks.
Kissing people is not too different.
It’s also strange in a way that he isn’t Joker, doesn’t have a mask or even glasses to shield himself from watchful gazes, but sometimes he’s pouring a little more confidence than he’s used to into the kisses simply because it makes it easier to channel their desires.
People twist like shy flowers under his gaze, and while he touches only a collar or chest at most, he catches them staring at his lips, gaze drifting endlessly lower whenever he pulls away as if he already enchanted them.
It’s a strange sort of power. Different from the one he usually has.
And the Phantom Thieves, of course, find him sooner or later.
Ann has probably already informed them about his provisional role to prepare them because Ryuji walks up to him with a bright, but shy smile and demands to kiss Akira on the cheek.
The best bro kind of kiss that’s totally for bros and nothing more, Ryuji iterates.
Akira laughs, having lost his embarrassment over the entire matter somewhere along the tenth kiss and leans forward, tilting his head a little to give Ryuji better access.
Ryuji, to his credit, keeps his composure relatively well for someone who is putting his lips onto the skin of another guy.
Futaba pecks him on the cheek and dips away before paying.
Yusuke asks for the full french kiss program because he wants the most immersive experience purely out of artistic reasons. Akira’s heart kind of melts at the innocence of his exclamation despite the actual wording.
Yusuke’s actually more straight forward and into it than Akira expected, especially considering how gently he’s holding Akira’s face, caressing his jaw like the edges of a painting he hasn’t finished admiring just yet.
It contrasts the strong, almost desperate push of his mouth, though the tension breaks when Yusuke confesses with a grief expression that he doesn’t actually have the money to pay for this sublime experience, thank you, Akira.
Akira presses 2000¥ into his hand and tells him to treat himself to something nice and don’t you dare drop that into the jar, Yusuke.
He humours Makoto with a kiss to her forehead to which she furiously blushes and scrambles away immediately, and ends up kissing Ann on both her cheeks a second time and even the palm of her hand to wring a laugh out of her and the others.
Haru, on the other hand—
Akira really does try to mentally prepare himself.
But no amount of training could have prepared him for Haru yanking him forward by his collar, much rougher than Ann did in the beginning, full on claiming his lips with hers.
“You’re so cute,” she giggles breathily, barely affected as if she just didn’t stick her tongue down Akira’s throat and watched him tremble like a deer in her hold. “I could just eat you up. ”
Akira squeezes his eyes shut. “Please don’t.”
Haru giggles. She kisses him with overwhelming force that leaves his body boneless two more times, and Akira is positively dizzy by the time she drops an accumulated amount of 5000¥ into the jar and leaves with little more than an accomplished flush to her face.
It takes Akira a while to regain his composure. He’s mostly shocked he didn’t dislike being manhandled like that. If his body temperature is anything to go by, the opposite is probably even the case.
Akira’s… discovering a lot of things about himself, today.
His lips throb with phantom bruises, but he can’t help but send Haru a grin when she looks back at him. She offers a twitch of her lips before linking arms with Makoto and Futaba, pulling them along with her to explore other sides of the festival.
Akira certainly has a special pack of friends, but he wouldn’t really trade them for anything in the world.
When he goes back to observing what he’d almost call an audience, he finds that there’s an actual line now.
Most of the people look a little impatient, a twinge of jealousy on their face—Akira doesn’t know if it’s because of Haru or him—and some expressions look so hungry that it makes him sweat a little.
Akira never thought so many would actually want something like this from him. The news he’s offering kisses for a meager sum must have been shared rapidly though. And way better than anyone could have anticipated.
After a few more rounds of relatively vanilla kisses, Akira spots a familiar shape of cropped, blue hair in the line.
He cocks his head, confidence from too many kisses lazily swirling in his gut.
“Come to get your turn, Mishima?”
Mishima splutters and fidgets. He looks like he’s inches away from stuffing the bills he’s cludging in his hands into his mouth, not caring about the fact that it’s too late to hide his intentions. Why else would he be here, anyway?
Somebody gives Mishima a light shove from behind, telling him to hurry up. Akira can’t hear the rest of the sentence because a sudden shift goes through what Akira suddenly realizes is an actual crowd.
It’s like somebody flipped a switch.
Akira rakes his head to find the source of the commotion, but he doesn’t need to look long because it saves him the trouble by appearing directly before him.
The corners of Akechi’s curl in that familiar way he usually only reserves for the warm space inside of Leblanc after Akira’s coaxed him into staying for curry as well.
His stomach drops like a broken elevator.
Akechi’s smile widens into a smirk. “...A kissing booth, Kurusu-kun?”
Akira’s explained this hundreds of times already today, but the words that come to his mind feel lackluster when Akechi looks at him like that.
“I’m doing it for charity?” Akira asks more than says, suddenly unsure about his entire existence and the purpose of life.
Where will the money actually go to later?
Akechi’s eyes leisurely drift to the almost full jar of money, then back to him.
The crowd is eerily silent. Akira wishes for them to at least murmur to each other, to create some kind of noise that’d alleviate the severity of this situation.
Akira can’t blame everyone for being curious, though. Not when their precious detective prince is rooted in front of a kissing booth run by the delinquent of Shujin and blocking what must be at least ten people by now.
No one is complaining.
It’s like time has frozen for them.
“Charity, you say. Does this have something to do with Kirishima?” Akechi asks.
“Mishima,” Mishima meagerly corrects from behind them, and Akechi smiles molten sugar without turning around.
“Pardon. Miriam, then.” And, to Akira, “Never thought I’d see you run a kissing booth of all things.”
“I’ve become awfully familiar with that line,” Akira mumbles.
He feels his stomach coil tighter when Akechi hums in that high, inquisitive tone that’s unique to his honeyed voice. For inexplicable reasons, Akira never felt more nervous around him.
It’s like all the confidence he just accumulated over god knows how many kisses have been suddenly flushed down the drain, courtesy of Akechi.
God, Akira has kissed so many people today. He’s pretty sure he’s an expert at it by now. Of course he’s been on the receiving end of a lot of judgmental looks as well, but Akechi is, as always, different from the rest, and Akira feels rather exposed with how much Akechi’s staring into him, like he’s a box for him to open.
Or a gift to unwrap.
The gloved tip of a finger starts to caress the rim of the money jar, running in smooth circles. Not unlike how Akechi sometimes traces the cup of his coffee in Leblanc.
It takes all of Akira’s willpower to not follow the hypnotic movement.
“You seem to have gotten a lot of customers,” Akechi says, demonstratively knocking at the jar twice, never breaking eye contact.
Akira manages a nod. His hands are clammy in his lap.
Akechi didn't come here to… do the same thing as everyone else, did he?
No, he has a reputation to uphold. Akira knows that. Parts of Akechi’s success and overall appeal stems from the media passively selling him as a young, attractive, and most importantly single man. Your personal online boyfriend that’ll never know your name. It’s why Akechi has to keep answers to questions about his type or relationship status vague.
Akechi told him that personally. He’s merely here to tease him a little before going on his merry way. But does he need to linger this much? Surely that’ll create unfavorable rumours.
Akira twirls a lock around his finger, like he always does when he grows too nervous to sit still. “I didn’t expect so many to be interested,” he truthfully explains.
Akechi stops his circling motion for a few seconds to watch him through hooded eyes. There’s something in the red of his gaze, Akira suddenly realizes, that makes him feel really, really small. Doesn’t help that he’s still sitting while Akechi’s standing, so Akira essentially has to tilt up his head to look into his eyes.
“You underestimate yourself,” Akechi slowly murmurs.
“Huh?”
“You sell yourself too short. Modesty is important, but you also need to know when to hold your ground, Kurusu-kun. Once in a while, you need to let people know what you’re good at.” Akechi’s tone dips lower. “Or, in specific cases, what you want. ”
Akira’s mouth is suddenly very, very dry.
What Akechi’s saying probably makes a lot of sense, but Akira’s occupied with other things. The tightness of his throat, the heat crawling down his back in lazy waves, the sudden urge to yank at Akechi’s stupidly striped tie that sits way too snugly around his throat to be comfortable.
He kind of wants to see it undone.
It all makes it hard for Akira to gather a coherent string of thoughts.
He resists the urge to hide his face when Akechi’s eyes trail lower, stopping at his lips.
When he drags his gaze back up again, the red in his eyes is a bit too warm.
“Where are your glasses?” Akechi asks.
“...Ann took them.”
She never gave them back, either, he realizes.
If Akira’s brain isn’t playing tricks on him, the smile that stretches Akechi’s face next has a darker tinge to it than Akira’s used to.
The dim lighting of a closed off space, inviting secrecy and intimacy.
It’s painfully attractive.
“It's a shame that I've been caught up in other things related to the festival. Otherwise I would have claimed your first kiss for myself,” Akechi offhandedly says.
His fingers curl, beckoning upwards and forwards at the same time. Akira’s body follows helplessly, like Akechi’s controlling the string of his limbs, and before he knows it, he’s standing almost eye to eye with him.
The only thing that separates their bodies are the wooden counter and a little bit of air.
They’re around the same height now, but also closer at the same time. Akira’s heart is thundering, about to leap out of its chest because he wonders in the furthest edge of his mind that isn’t working into overdrive on how to handle this entire situation properly whether Akechi has any kissing experience.
If the pink of his lips taste like coffee and sugar and promises of demise his nightmares whispers into his ear.
“Did you keep track?”
“H-huh?"
Akechi’s eyes narrow. “I asked if you kept track of how many people you let kiss you today.”
Akira did in fact try, but it seemed like an impossible task soon enough. He manages to shake his head, afraid his voice would fail if he were to try and put together a coherent sentence.
Why is Akechi interested in that in the first place?
The detective clicks his tongue.
“64 times,” he says.
Akira isn’t sure if it’s possible to both pale and flush, but it’d be an accurate description of how he feels. There’s no way Akechi kept track. There is no logical explanation for it.
Akechi must have said a random number, and this is another game they’re playing, only that Akira has no idea what the rules and stakes are.
“How?” Akira rasps. He clears his throat, flustered. “You were busy. You said it yourself. I didn’t even see you so—”
“I watched you exchange saliva with another person 64 times, Kurusu-kun.” Akechi now murmurs. “Probably a little more. Do you have any idea on how I feel?”
He curls his hand underneath Akira’s chin, lifts it with no effort or resistance from Akira’s side. “Do you know how… agonizing that was? Seeing so many people lay their hands on something that isn’t theirs, simply because you felt like helping Mishima a little?”
Akira only now realizes Akechi is casually talking about kissing him like they’re having a conversation about the weather.
Akechi sighs, like he’s explaining something redundant to Akira. “I suppose it could be worse. All I need to do is override every single experience that came before me.”
And then his brain just shuts down because Akechi is kissing him.
Actually kissing him, like all the other people before, but never has it been this devastating.
And Akechi is... gentler than expected.
Then again, Akira doesn't know what he expected with the way Akechi so easily switches between derisive politeness and embarrassed anger.
Despote Akechi possessing so many distinctive character quirks he keeps neatly hidden underneath a mask, he's essentially a blank slate for Akira in the end.
But at the end of the day, though, Akira's pretty sure that even if he spent his entire life kissing different people, nothing would have prepared him for kissing Goro Akechi.
The kiss, something in his mind corrects—are on the more tentative side. Little more than the brush of lips, the intimacy of sharing the same breath and realizing that there's no other interpretation for this than one.
Staring into each other's eyes from a distance where their eyes resemble small connotations of wonders that are impossible to understand instead of hardened slaters of different stones.
They're testing the waters, see how the other moves and reacts according to the own whims of their bodies.
Akira... doesn't even really know what to do or what he's doing. Akechi has him leaning forward so he has to support his weight with his arms on the wood beneath him even though he'd want nothing more than to run his fingers through Goro's hair to connect them in more ways than one, and even though it’s chaste and warm and slow and a little bit familiar because he's apparently kissed over 60 people today, Akira feels entirely too helpless in the web Akechi has spun around him.
Like Akechi’s stealing more than just his breath with each tilt of his head. Something intangible from deep inside Akira which he cradles in the warmth of his mouth and coerces Akira to chase after it, fully aware he's turning Akira's limbs into a pile of goo and making every advance useless.
Akechi kisses like it’s the weapon he wants to kill Akira with.
The thought makes him a little dizzy.
He's closed his eyes at some point in time, but it only serves to make him more hyper aware of everything that's going on right now. And, if he's honest, this way he can immerse himself in the overwhelming glow of sensations he's basking.
Maybe, if he closes his eyes hard enough, the moment will last for an eternity, or at least imprint itself strongly enough to leave a shape of Akechi behind he could always come back to.
Their noses vaguely bump against each other. Akechi chuckles lightly against his lips, and Akiras is pretty sure he's dreaming when he opens his eyes to the feathery wings of Akechi's eye lashes.
There's a faint dust of brown splattered across the bridge of his nose, too, and Akira feels silly for wanting to count them some day.
He never thought he'd get to kiss Akechi. It's a dream, he's pretty sure, the metaverse messing with his perception, but he's just so aware of the faint taste of mint and coffee and something sweeter of Akechi's lips, the glide of leather against his heated skin when Akechi cups his cheek and pulls him a little more forward, all while his eyes are still trained on him, pupils dilated.
His hands feel so good. So warm.
And yet they’re not close enough.
Ren wonders if Akechi is just as desperate for this as he is, and the thought makes him gasp at the next push of their lips.
"A pretty sound," Akechi murmurs. Hot breath briefly fans across his jaw. Akira can't help but nuzzle a little into his hold. "I wonder if the others got to hear it, too?"
Akira tries to say no—he didn't know kisses can actually be this intense until now—and it'd be so easy, giving the word a breath of air, but it’s the hardest task in his entire life when Akechi teasingly licks as the corner of his mouth, dragging the wet muscle across his lower lip next.
Claiming all of Akira's attention and higher brain functions for himself. The hold on him increases in pressure, fingers tightening. It's less moving their lips against each other and more of a molding, kneading now, finding a lazy rhythm to pour everything that goes unsaid into.
He whines instead and opens his eyes when the pressure on his lips is suddenly gone. Akechi has pulled away, allowing them both a short breather.
There's an almost drunken haze on Akechi's face.
The fingers around Akira’s face tighten when Akechi leans in further.
"Akechi," Akira tries, one of his own hands moving to grasp a blazer or maybe a neck, but Akechi grabs his wrist to pull him even closer for the next instance, refusing to give him any respite or control over his body.
Their foreheads touch.
"You're still able to respond, which means I didn’t try enough."
The entire world spins like a carousel at his words. That was—Akechi’s been holding back?
His neck is starting to hurt a little from the angle, but god if it isn’t worth it.
Akira can't recall anything right now—he doesn't know where he is, doesn't know how the circumstances lead him to Akechi pressing their mouths together in an increasingly bruising dance.
All that matters is the tingle of his nerve ends that sigh in gentle pleasure turning increasingly sharper the more Akechi demands from him with each tightening of his grip around his wrist.
Kissing Akechi feels good. More than good. Like something both deliberate and serendipitous. Like something he could spend ages doing and never get tired of.
He can't find any reason as to why they didn't do it beforehand.
And just when Akira thinks he can't get more drunk and delirious on Akechi’s scent enveloping him warm, intensively, Akechi bites into his lips and the sudden split of pain in the sea of cloudy pleasure has him release a sound he didn't know he'd been capable of producing and that surely just didn’t come from him, did it?
Akira’s going to faint any second.
And yet Akechi takes even that away from him by biting him again and pulling him back to awareness. Akira jolts in his hold, releasing a wet whimper Akechi promptly swallows in favour of growling back, probing at the dents with the tip of his tongue before he drags it across the seam of his lips, only to thrust it back inside in one smooth motion.
Akira really tries to reciprocate, but everytime he thinks he's gotten familiar enough with the way Akechi's working his mouth open, the other alters things.
Distracts him by pulling at his hair or running his fingers down the column of his throat that's suddenly a lot more sensitive, all while twisting his tongue into a different series of patterns that leave him dizzy with a burning need.
Akira can only keep up so much and eventually he just gives up, dazedly lets Akechi do as he pleases.
As if sensing his conceit, Akechi makes a pleased noise. Moves becoming gentler, but no less greedy.
Just when Akira thinks his lips are going to be permanently bruised and red and swollen and he'll die because Akechi kissed him to death (a nice thing to put on his epitaph), Akechi ever so slowly begins to retract, as if easing Akira into the painful notion of a world with no kisses.
He just barely bites back a whine.
A thread of saliva still connects them when they fully part.
Akira blinks—his vision is blurry. He blinks some more and realizes that tears have clogged his eyelashes, and he wants to wipe them away but his body is a mountain of mush and even thinking feels like a strenuous task.
Thumbs work under his eyes. Ren tenses briefly, but he quickly relaxes once he realizes it’s Akechi.
"So?" the detective says, raspy and breathy in a way that Akira wants to smash their mouths back together and drink straight from the source.
Akechi looks like he's barely restraining himself from devouring him again.
Akira wouldn’t mind.
"Head empty," he weakly slurs. "Akechi only."
The corners of Akechi's stupidly attractive smirk twitch with what he knows is fond exasperation, like when Akira bombards him with ten pictures of a stray kitten and he reluctantly agrees yes, they are cute, Kurusu-kun, can we get back to the topic at hand, but Akira doesn't have the coherency to form a better sentence. Akechi can't complain as well since he's responsible for his current state in the first place.
"I'll take that as a compliment.'' Akechi runs his tongue across his lips, as if chasing the taste of their kisses. “120 seconds. Could have been better, though I suppose it should suffice.”
Akira's jaw moves in slow motion.
"Wait. You... you counted how long we’ve kissed?'
He doesn’t know whether he should be offended or impressed that Akechi found the time to fuckign count during what essentially has to be a make out session. Especially because Akira could barely follow his own, wispy string of thoughts.
Akechi does an endearing mix between a scowl and blush. "I didn't make up the number on the spot, Kurusu-kun"
He brushes over Akira’s bangs once more in a gesture of weird affection Akira doesn't want to place at the moment before stepping back, straightening his disheveled appearance.
Akira abruptly feels cold. He doesn't realize how much he's been clinging onto Akechi until the moment he's gone.
He just barely prevents himself from doing somethig stupid like tumbling over the stall to catch Akechi in an embrace, but now that theres actual physical distance between them and Akechi isn’t occupying most of his vision anymore, he realizes that other people exist.
A shitton of other people actually, all sporting a colorful amount of expressions on their faces if they don't have their own phone pulled up. Akira spots some of his friends as well, including a few scandalized looking teachers.
If Akira felt warm before, he's now down right on fire. There's nothing to describe the feeling of embarrassment at having your crush shove his tongue down your throat for two minutes straight and having it recorded.
What does that even make them?
Akechi surely didn't do it out of fun. The kiss was too... possessive for that. Too consuming. It felt like a claim as much as a promise.
He sees Ann in the corner of her eyes, and the way she sends him two thumbs ups makes him groan and hide his face completely.
Akechi chuckles.
"This stall is closed for the reminder of the festival," the detective says, louder than before, so he's most likely addressing the crowd and not Akira.
Good. He still has to find out how to regain his brain functions.
Protests grow loud, but Akechi must be doing something with his face again because they die out as fast as they arose.
“Any more complaints? No? Wonderful.”
Akira peeks through his fingers in time to see Akechi reaching for his wallet, pulling out way too many bills. 5000¥, 10.000¥, Akira stops counting when he’s reached 20.000¥.
And instead of putting it into the jar, Akechi slides the small stack towards Akira with a low smile playing on his face.
“Keep the rest. I'll be sure to collect your debt later on," he says, winks, and disappears into the crowd which parts for him like water.
Akira is still in the middle of trying to process what just happened when Ann uses the sudden chaos that breaks out to slide up beside him, leaning against the stall.
She whistles.
Akira’s able to make out Haru in the distance, pure anger written all over her face. She's barely being held back by the combined force of Yusuke, Ryuji and Makoto, though Yusuke barely counts because he’s more busy longingly staring at the black card Haru’s almost crushing in her hand than actually restraining her.
“Ann.”
"Yes?"
Akira clears his throat. "Did he—did Akechi just buy me?"
"He totally did,” she says without missing a beat. “And it was really hot.”