Work Text:
Akechi is standing in a smudged, floor-length mirror that’s propped up in a dusty corner of Kurusu’s attic room, wearing half of a Shujin uniform. This is ridiculous. How did such an offhanded comment lead to this?
Everything was normal, and then Kurusu had leaned over to retrieve something from the floor—and Akechi wasn’t looking, she wasn’t— revealing a flash of skin at the top of her stockings. Over knee stockings. That’s nothing sensational, of course, but the shock of it sent the words tumbling from Akechi’s mouth before she could think better of it: “Oh, are those over-knees? I’d always assumed they were tights.”
If Kurusu was surprised by the sudden attention and subject, she didn’t show it. “Hm? No, they’re socks.” Then she hiked up her skirt just enough to show the top of the elastic band, and another sliver of pale skin that lanced through Akechi’s chest like a knife blade. “I just like them better, I guess.”
That should’ve been the end of it. A pointless, dismal conversation.
But then Akechi said: “I see,” and she must’ve held some sort of tone, because it made Kurusu pause whatever she was doing. She sent Akechi a look from over her glasses and grinned, “Come here for a second.”
And now she’s standing here like this… Is this typical? Do highschoolers normally trade clothes just for fun? She’s embarrassed to admit that she doesn’t know—so she’ll just have to go along with it for now.
It’s also hard to deny Kurusu’s pushy antics when she’s got that sly gleam in her eyes. “You said I could pass for your stunt double, remember? Shouldn’t it work both ways?” she’d said, remembering some offhanded comment that Akechi had made weeks ago. “We could trade places like in the old movies, and then you can play the pariah for a change.”
Oh, she knows full well what that’s like. It’s strange to hear Kurusu speak of her own situation in such a way, though. There’s no denying the bitterness that underlines her casual lilt. Akechi would know it anywhere. It’s a familiar feeling, after all.
Gloved hands unconsciously smooth the pleats of her skirt, and she finally shakes off the embarrassment enough to get a good look at herself. This feels so strange…
It’s nothing, really. A plaid skirt—Kurusu’s, and it fits perfectly. It’s rolled a tiny bit higher than usual, just over her knees and the tops of Kurusu’s stockings. A simple alteration. Normal, even. Something she’d always wanted but could never have for herself, because it didn’t fit the framework of the perfect TV-ready personality. Prim and pretty and demure and sexy (but not too sexy!). Always being sculpted and dressed up for someone else…
She loosens the striped bow around her neck and lets it fall—it clashed with the plaid of the skirt anyway—and undoes the top button of her blouse. Then the next, until her collar bones can breathe. The plunge of the fabric isn’t even deep enough to show cleavage, just the skin of her throat and a ridge of clavicle. A band of flesh between where the socks end and the skirt begins. She’s never felt better than she does right now, in this moment.
“God, how dare you look better than me in my own uniform,” Kurusu cries in mock fury.
It still makes her heart do another stupid little flip, though. “Now you’re just teasing me.”
“No, I mean it wholeheartedly.” Then she pauses for a moment, scowling like she’s thinking hard about something. Suddenly, she lights up, and scurries over to the shelf of gifts and trinkets she keeps across the room. A quick rummage through a box, and she’s hurrying back with what appears to be… a packet of makeup remover wipes? Hold on— “One thing though,” she murmurs, looking up and effortlessly snaring Akechi within that dark stare. She delicately wipes the subtle gloss from Akechi’s lips, which have been frozen half-parted in a stupor. “This color doesn’t really work with Shujin’s red,” Kurusu smirks. “I guess not even you can pull that off.”
She can’t move at all. Even her mind has screeched to a halt. Kurusu is standing so close, warmth pouring out of her like a fire. Too bright to stare at too long yet maybe—hopefully—broken in some way deep, deep down the same way Akechi is. So that perhaps, in a perfect world, the twisted, mangled shapes of their hearts might complement each other, and fit together. Just a little.
Akechi’s hand curls into a fist to keep from reaching out. That would be foolish. It’s trembling, and she has to say something before Kurusu notices. “You don’t wear makeup, do you?” she mumbles, softer than intended.
Kurusu shakes her head and whispers, “No.” Matching her tone, and not moving back a step.
“So, then, why do you have remover?”
“Oh. Ann gave me these. Said she had too many.”
“I see.”
“I’m glad I finally got to use them for something.”
She swallows the buildup in her mouth, and suddenly misses the shield of her fully-buttoned collar. The silence is crackling in the air like electricity. Say something. “Kurusu.”
“Hm?”
“What about you? Isn’t it your turn?”
Kurusu tilts her head, eyelashes fluttering thoughtfully. “Oh!” she hums a laugh like a song. “I guess you’re right!”
“You did say something about a stunt double.”
“Only because you mentioned it first,” she grins, and finally steps back to search for Akechi’s discarded uniform. (And Akechi definitely doesn’t breathe a quiet sigh of relief as the tension breaks.) Kurusu pulls the blazer from the couch and shrugs it on over her Shujin shirt. She sighs dreamily, “It smells like you.”
“Of course it does, it’s mine,” Akechi rushes to avoid stammering like an idiot.
Kurusu’s smile is devilish as she slowly fastens all the buttons. “Well?”
It’s just as strange. It doesn’t look bad, per se, but… No, there’s definitely something off about it. “It’s the turtleneck,” she decides. “Don’t you have a proper blouse?”
“Hmm… I think so.” And Kurusu wanders off across the room, back to her cardboard box full of clothes and other personal effects. (Is that all she brought from her hometown? Nothing sentimental or important; just a bunch of simple clothes?) She removes the blazer and pulls the aforementioned turtleneck up and over her head, tossing it onto the bed and halting all of Akechi’s thoughts.
She instantly averts her eyes. This feels indecent all of a sudden, but it’s nothing more than what she’s seen in bathhouses or locker rooms. It’s nothing. They even traded skirts earlier. She’s got to get it together. She goes back to studying her own reflection before her mind melts.
“Okay, how about now?” Kurusu calls. “Do I suit the image of the Detective Prince?”
Akechi scoffs, “Let’s not ask for miracles.” But with the blazer, knee socks, and lack of glasses, Kurusu does look decidedly… different. Especially with that cheeky grin and, “What’s with the pose?”
Kurusu splutters with laughter, one hand on her hip and the other poised beneath her chin. “It’s yours!”
“I do not have a pose.”
“Are you sure?” she winks. “I’m certain this is it.”
Akechi’s face burns hot. “You’re imagining things.”
“I think I pull it off pretty well.”
She can’t argue with that, irritatingly enough. It’s still missing something though, so she goes to get a closer look. Kurusu tenses beneath her scrutiny but tries to play it off. She’s not very good at it. Her smile is far too forced. “Ah, that’s it. One last thing…” Akechi pulls a tube of lip tint from her case—her usual shade—and cups Kurusu’s face in her free hand. With a few expert strokes, the subtle color is applied, giving Kurusu’s lips a rosy sheen. “There. It seems that you can clean up nicely after all.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Kurusu pouts. Her cheeks are flaming red now, and Akechi wonders if she picked the wrong shade by mistake.
No. No, she’s just standing entirely too close, and with Kurusu’s chin still propped between her fingers. “Oh.”
Kurusu doesn’t break that gaze. Her thoughts must be running wild. She’s carefully considering what comes next, and then tilts her head. Forward.
Oh, holy shit. Akechi’s mind instantly spirals. There’s no way that she— But her first instinct— What would this situation look like from the outside? Doesn’t it match up? Could Kurusu be—a warm hand on her wrist, and she’s rooted to the floor. Kurusu has the pull of a magnet. Akechi is frozen like an idiot. It’s not that she’s unused to such attention. Between pushy politicians and sleazy tv executives who aren’t nearly as subtle as they think they are, something like this shouldn’t bother her at all. She should smile and recoil like always. She should—
Kurusu isn’t pushy. She tugs Akechi closer like it’s merely a suggestion. The decision is Akechi’s to make, and she allows herself to be pulled in with little resistance.
Her lips are soft and a little sticky with gloss and taste faintly of coffee because of course they do and any and all rational thought turns to dust on the attic floor.