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The cough starts in Okumura’s Palace, and Ann is onto him from the start.
“Allergies,” Akira explains.
“Joker,” Ann says, “we’re in space.”'
Joker has a half-dozen reasons it’s probably allergies. There’s a tree outside Leblanc that’s been blooming lately. The sore throat is from yelling battle orders. Morgana’s been sleeping near his nose. He’s opening his mouth for the first round of excuses when he starts coughing again.
“Shit, man,” Ryuji swears. “Is that haki throat?”
“Skull, please don’t call it that.”
“It sounds gross because it is gross, Queen!”
Yusuke nods sagely. “A crude word, for a beautiful expression of the heart.”
“Didn’t Panther cough up green boogers?” Futaba adds.
“..it is an aesthetically complex expression of the heart.”
Haru swoons. “Oh, how romantic.”
Akira straightens up. “It’s not hanahaki. I have a cold.”
Makoto looks unimpressed. “I thought you had allergies?”
“Yeah, allergies. Cold allergies.” He coughs again. “And pollen.”
Makoto raises an eyebrow. Why did Akira have to befriend the most perceptive person at Shujin?
“Ya know, dude,” Ryuji said, “if you don’t want it to get gross, you could just call ‘em right now.”
Ann sighs. “It doesn’t work over the phone, Skull.”
“It totally does! My cousin’s friend had a petal on the train. Called her guy and boom! Cleared up at the next station.”
Morgana glares at Ryuji. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Hey! I thought we were easin’ up on insultin’ each other -”
“It’s not insulting you if you’re wrong -”
Haru looks remarkably unperturbed for someone wiping organs off her axe. “Do Skull and Mona-chan always fight?”
“Pretty much.” Makoto punches Akira on the back as he clears his throat. Ever the pragmatist. “Ready to move out?”
“Probably.”
Futaba pulls a fruit wrap out of her pocket. “That means ‘no, I’m dying’ in Joker speak. Can we find a safe room? I wanna see if he’ll hack up a weed.”
“In truth, Joker,” Yusuke says from the window, framing a disemboweled robot corpse as it floats by, “if the object of your affections is with us, it would be economical to confess now. It would ensure a smooth infiltration.”
Akira laughs.
Yeah, if he had hanahaki - which he didn’t - it would be easier to crush on a teammate. But between Ryuji’s painful straightness, Yusuke’s…lack of anything, Ann gushing over Shiho, and Futaba being essentially his sister, he didn’t have a lot of options. So if this was hanahaki - which it wasn’t - that left Haru, who seemed lovely but had met him yesterday, and Makoto. Who…well, maybe in another timeline or something. Just not this one.
“There’s no one here I need to confess to.” Joker straightens up.
Makoto lets out a huff of relief. Clearly, she’d done the same math.
“Who is it? Hifumi? She’ll be at the church. Or - “ Morgana wrinkles his nose. “No. Joker, please don’t tell me it’s Kawa -”
“Nope!” (It wasn’t Kawakami, but Joker wasn’t in the mood to explain that arrangement.) “It’s no one. Because this isn’t hanahaki.”
“It’s allergies,” Ann finishes, completely deadpan. “From pollen. In September. In space.”
“Yes. Let’s move on, please.”
They drop it, and Akira gets away with muffling a few (okay, more than a few) coughs in his coat for the rest of the run. It’s only when they’re limping out of the Palace two exhausted hours later when Ann grabs him.
“Isn’t your stop that way?”
Ann swipes her transit pass. “Not today. Come on.”
They’re on the train and sitting next to each other before Akira can think twice.
“What,” he says, mostly to break Ann’s unbroken stare as the doors close, “do I have space dust on my face?”
“I thought it was allergies, too.”
It’s hard to argue. After all, Ann’s the only person Akira knows who’s come down with hanahaki, minus one boy in his English class back home. He’d spent too long staring at the nurses’ informational posters; 63% of all adolescents will contract hanahaki disease between the ages of thirteen and twenty. That’s why people confessed, after all, to nip crushes in the bud before you could develop symptoms. But sometimes feelings were weird and tangled and complicated, and you only really knew what was happening when your throat got scratchy. So when Ann had coughed up a purple petal (along with several green boogers), she hadn’t wasted a second finding Shiho. Cutting Yusuke off mid-sentence to leave was a bit rude, but he’d found it charming.
(“A violet,” Yusuke muttered as Ann power-walked towards the train. “Symbolic of love between women. How fascinating that our hearts know our desires this way.”
“Dude,” Ryuji blinked, “Ann likes girls?”
Akira just facepalmed. Straightest man alive.)
Point was, Ann’s confession to Shiho has clearly gone well, judging by how many cutesy photos of them kissing are taped inside her locker. But Ann knew she felt something for Shiho; Ryuji was seemingly the only one who didn’t know. Akira’s in a very different state of mind.
Akira might not be a Goro Akechi - he’s not smooth or clever, and he doesn’t have a killer smile like the one Akechi shoots over the billiards table, the one that makes his chest feel tight - but he does know himself. If he had unrequited feelings, he’d be able to tell.
“Thanks, Ann. But. I don’t have a…” - what was the clinical phrase on the nurse’s informational poster? - “...an object of affection. So it can’t be hanahaki.”
“Oh.” Ann almost looks…disappointed?
“Wait, if you thought it was hanahaki, who did you think it was for?”
Ann digs a bag of candy out of her purse. “I thought that maybe it was Ryuji, and you were too embarrassed. Because, ya know, he can miss things.”
Straightest man alive. “No, thank god.”
Morgana pokes his head out from Akira’s bag. “I would never miss your affections, Lady Ann.”
“That’s sweet, Mona.” Ann scritches Morgana under the chin. “You should tell that to Shiho, she brought you tuna treats.”
Morgana meows and disappears back into the bag. He’s…trying to be nice about the Shiho thing. Half the time, he even succeeds.
Sorry, Akira mouths at Ann, but the rush of odd air over his vocal chords makes him cough again. Shit.
“You should still get that looked at, Akira. That cough doesn’t sound good.”
Akira gives her a sloppy thumbs-up. “I have a doctor.”
He’ll get Takemi to look at him later. It’ll be fine.
At least it’s not hanahaki.
“It’s hanahaki.”
“Ish NOT - “
“Quiet, guinea pig.” Takemi jabs the tongue depressor a few more centimeters down his throat. “You’ll choke if you keep talking, unless that’s part of the fun.”
(She’s not wrong, but that depends on the circumstances, and those circumstances are not this.)
Takemi shines a flashlight down his throat and sighs. “Yep, that’s a leaf. Textbook case. Go confess tonight and it’ll clear right up.”
She finally pulls the depressor out, and Akira’s almost relieved to be coughing for an easily explainable reason, like a doctor with no personal space. “It can’t be hanahaki. I don’t have an object of affection.”
Takemi outright laughs. “Sure. When did your symptoms start?”
“Two nights ago.”
“And who were you with that afternoon?”
Haru Okumura, plotting to infiltrate her father’s spaceship. “A friend. Not my type.”
“And the evening?”
“Another friend.” It was a pleasant surprise, finding Akechi waiting at Leblanc. He should have been more on edge - the detective prince, sitting and sipping coffee only meters away from his target’s hideout - but it was hard to be on edge with Akechi. Spending time with him was easy, conversation turning into lively debate over coffee or curry or jazz-club drinks, just as lively as spending time with the Thieves but…different, somehow. Akechi loved to compete with him, but Akira loved competing, and even loved the edge Akechi got when he realized he was losing, because the meanness made Akira up his game. Sojiro had kicked them out to go to the bathhouse, and sitting in the water, listening to Akechi tell him about his mother’s history - trust him, with things he’d never trusted anyone with before - Akira remembers being in awe. In awe that Morgana’s idea to keep an eye on his investigator had turned into such a friendship. In awe that he, just a delinquent who worked too many jobs (to Akechi’s eye, at least), was deemed worthy to share this with. In awe, as he watched Akechi get out of the tub without bothering with a towel, that someone as good-looking as Akechi wanted to be near to him, didn’t mind him staring -
Oh.
Oh no.
Takemi is cackling. “Men.”
Akira coughs. Shit.
“So who is she, guinea pig? Rich? Famous? Out of your league?”
Well, in for a yen. “He’s all three.”
Takemi looks less surprised than she should. “Huh. That tracks.”
Doctor-patient confidentiality is a thing outside of America, Akira’s sure of it. And Takemi has to follow it. Right? Right?
“If you’re going to panic about liking boys,” Takemi says, “do it quickly. I have to close up.”
Akira crossed that bridge years ago (and earlier this year, when he learned the hard way that Ryuji was the straightest person alive). Boys are nothing new to him.
This boy, on the other hand, is very inconvenient.
“Doc,” Akira says, already feeling the tickle in the back of his throat. “I need you to make a cure.”
Takemi scoffs. “If I could cure hanahaki, do you think I’d be running a clinic? I tried. It just gave a lot of high schoolers tonsillitis.”
Akira decides he doesn’t want to know the details.
“But can you slow it down?”
Takemi gives him a knowing look. “Maybe.”
“It’s…” A betrayal of his team. Their mission. The law. Possibly the stupidest place his dick has lead him in his entire life, and by that, he means potentially a felony. A second one. “...inconvenient.”
Takemi hums. “Alright. Only ‘cause you helped me with Miwa-chan. You hear?”
“Yep.”
Takemi turns around and starts mixing some foul-smelling sludge. Even from here, Akira can tell that it’s going to taste worse than usual.
“You gotta confess eventually. But this can buy you a week.” Takemi hands him the glass. “Bottoms up.”
It’s so foul, Akira vomits when he swallows. At least the second batch stays down.
(He’s so effed.)
Gods bless Tae Takemi and her questionably legal trials, because for a week, it works. Akira’s at about 70% normal capacity and has a cough that cough drops don’t help, but he’s able to meet Hifumi for shogi, beat Haru’s cognitive dad, and pass an English test. Most importantly, the vines stay put. They’re not getting better, but they’re not getting worse, either, and that seems to convince the Thieves that he’s only got a cold. It’s a shit week, and Morgana spends most of it complaining about getting coughed on, but it’s a week.
“It’s not Lady Ann, is it?”
Akira’s fingers slip on the lockpick he’s crafting. “What are you talking about, Mona?”
“Your hanahaki.”
“It’s not hanahaki.”
“I’m not dumb, Akira.” Akira seriously doubts that, given Morgana’s response to Makoto’s laser pointer at their last strategy meeting, but decides not to mention it. “I’d have it for her, but this body is immune.”
Akira sighs. Hiding something from someone you live with is hard, especially when they sleep on your chest every night. “Fine. It’s not Ann.”
“Because if you need to confess, go ahead.” Morgana sighs dramatically. “Don’t worry about me. The heart wants what it wants, and until I’m human, I can’t treat her the way she deserves.”
Even if it were Ann, Akira would be more worried about her girlfriend than Morgana’s feelings. But for Morgana - especially regarding Ann - this is actually pretty mature. “Thanks, Mona. But it’s not Ann.”
Morgana lets out a sigh of relief as he stretches. He gorged on Shiho’s tuna treats today, so he must be in a good mood.
“AKIRA! Dinner’s ready!”
Thank god. He’d spent the afternoon wandering an art gallery with Yusuke, and while he loved that his friend was eager to explore every wing, he was starving. “Coming, Futaba!”
Sojiro’s out when he gets downstairs, which is weird, but maybe he decided to close early. And Futaba shoveling curry into her mouth while she looks at her phone (presumably Featherman fic) is business as usual. Akira fixes himself a plate and collapses, letting the background noise of the TV drown out his thoughts. He’s functioning, but having a 24/7 cold is exhausting.
“So,” Futaba says, “it’s Akechi, right?”
Akira chokes on his curry. “What.”
“It’s not Ann or Ryuji,” Futaba says, not even looking up from her phone, “because even if they didn’t like you back, they’d be super nice and understand that you need to confess to feel better and you wouldn’t be afraid to do it. Inari doesn’t really do love stuff, so a confession would bounce off him, he probably wouldn’t figure it out. You would’ve done it already.”
“How do you know I’m bi?”
Futaba does look up from her bowl for that. “I have eyes. Also, your search history.”
…right. The whole “living with an international hacker” thing. It’s easy to forget, until your quasi-sister finds your taste in porn.
“Anyway. Makoto, maybe, but you spent like a month fake dating for her thing, you would’ve told her if you were interested. Trope one-oh-one. And Haru’s not your type.”
“I…what?”
“Too nice. Search history, remember?”
…jesus christ. Akira could’ve lived his entire life without knowing that Futaba’s found his preference for getting stepped on.
“So that leaves the weird doctor, who’s been giving you medicine to suppress it and is also like thirty, or that Hifumi girl you play shogi with, and we fixed her mom problem in Mementos last week, you would’ve told her already. Or, it’s someone you know, hang out with regularly, but would be a really bad idea to confess to because he’s investigating us, and is also kind of mean in a way you like, because you’re weird.” Futaba beams. “So. Akechi?”
Akira doesn’t even have time for denial before he starts coughing.
Shit shit shit . It’s bad this time. There’s something in the back of his throat that isn’t half-chewed curry. At least he has a napkin to hack it into, because it’s raw and tastes bitter and disgusting and christ , how can Takemi make potions that fix broken bones instantly but not fix this ?
He looks at the petal when he’s finally calmed. Even half-chewed and covered in snot, he can tell it’s yellow, curly, and taunting him.
“One second - aha!” Futaba’s typing a mile a minute, presumably scanning one of the hanahaki guides on the health ministry’s website. “Got it. It’s a narcissus.”
“It’s also called a daffodil.”
Futaba gives him a look.
“Flower shop, remember? I, um, must have swallowed some during my last shift.”
Futaba seems almost offended that he thought she’d buy that. “Uh-huh. So it’s someone who’s pretty and full of himself.”
“And now, here to discuss the recent furor around Okumura Foods is detective Goro Akechi -”
Akira doubles over coughing so loud, he drowns out the TV.
A minute later, he spits a full daffodil into his palm. Futaba is staring into his soul.
“...weird coincidence.”
Futaba mutes the TV without breaking eye contact. “Uh-huh.”
He’s coughing up a narcissus in a Destinyland bathroom when Haru’s dad drops dead.
For the next few weeks, he doesn’t have time to think about Akechi, and the flowers stop.
Maybe he’s cured. He’s read that in about one percent of cases, hanahaki can just stop. Usually it’s because the victim finds out that their object of affection is a serial killer or something, but - hey, maybe it’s a miracle? He’s got enough on his plate as is. He’ll take it.
“I’m here to check out the venue,” Akechi says, in a tone that’s just menacing enough to make Akira hate himself for finding it hot. And then, all of a sudden, there’s something in the back of his throat again.
Shit. Shit shit shit . He’s going to start hacking up a lung again and then everyone will know and Akechi will know and then he’ll die of embarrassment before he can even get taken into custody and shit shit shit -
He grabs the red takoyaki and gulps it in one bite.
Good god . Akira’s pretty sure fire eaters burn their mouths less than this. It’s scraping down his throat like it’s got tiny claws dragging along with it. It’s hell.
But at least it’s a reason to be coughing.
“I -” he can barely get a word out before he doubles over. Akira hates his life. “Excuse me.”
He catches a glimpse of Futaba’s wide-eyed shock before he runs to the bathroom, like she’s impressed by his audacity. It’s a meager victory, but he’ll take it.
“You’re in deep shit, guinea pig.” Takemi looks worried. “Who is this guy? Is he married? The prime minister? Someone’s dad?”
“He’s the detective investigating me for murder,” Akira says, and slams back the potion before Takemi can react.
Akira’s fine. He’s handling it. His stupidly handsome crush is his new teammate and keeps saying things in his stupidly ominous voice that sound like turn-ons and his stupidly stubborn hanahaki is barely muffled by Takemi’s stupidly disgusting drug and stupid Akechi is probably hiding something because of his stupid love for stupid pancakes, but it’s fine . He can do this. It’s fine.
“You planted the bug?”, he mutters to Futaba once they’re safely locked in Leblanc.
Futaba cackles. “His search history is mine.”
“You’ve got to stop doing that.”
Futaba opens her laptop and starts tapping away. “Don’t tell me you’re not curious. I am, and I just want to know how much money he spends on hair gel - wait a minute.”
Her face is serious. Akira leans in.
It’s a recording. Akechi’s voice, but without the pleasant register he usually fakes for company. It’s cold and calculating and mean and if he weren’t saying the exact sequence of words he’s saying now, Akira would probably jerk off to it.
“We could always use the guard’s gun. Say he committed suicide.”
“...well.” Futaba says. “At least this should cure you.”
Akira coughs.
Akira has had enough .
He’s infiltrating the palace of one of his closest friend’s sisters with his crush, who’s wearing a really stupid outfit that not even he can pull off, and is also secretly trying to kill him. And he’s still coughing .
Akira is kinkshaming himself at this point. His latest dose from Takemi is wearing off and his chest hurts and the public hates him and watching Akechi rip apart shadows with extremely unsubtle bloodlust is driving him insane . Morgana keeps shooting him judgemental looks, which sucks, because Morgana is great at judgemental looks, because he’s a cat. The team’s “how to trick Akechi” strategy meetings are buckling under the awkwardness of everyone refusing to talk about it. Akechi invited him to play billiards the other night and just reading the text made him cough so badly, Sojiro called a doctor. And, on top of all that, he has a math test tomorrow.
If only there were a version of Akechi he could confess to that was normal . If he could just say the words to Akechi’s face, he’d be cured. And if that face was attached to a brain that didn’t want him dead -
Hold up.
He pulls Futaba aside in the next safe room. “I’m going to owe you a favor for this.”
Futaba nods, like she’s been expecting this. “I want Featherman issue one. Mint condition. I know you’re selling everything you pick up here, you have enough.”
…Akira was going to use that money for a Destinyland pass. “Deal.”
Akira’s claim that he and Futaba need to “scout out” the next Will Seed goes mercifully unexamined, and once they leave, Akechi’s Shadow is easy to find. Futaba tracks him down in an office off the high-limit floor, sipping tea as he diligently cooks the books. It’s a poor imitation of Akechi’s mask; compared to the real Akechi, who’s been so tightly wound lately that Akira half-expects him to call a daycare and yell that Santa isn’t real, it’s almost funny.
“Kurusu-kun! What a delight to see you.” Cognitive Akechi is so nice and pleasant. Akira’s never been less turned on. “Can I help?”
“Wait outside, Oracle.”
“Copy.”
Akira sighs as the door shuts. Damnit, he really wanted that pass.
“Akechi,” Akira starts, “I like you.”
Cognitive Akechi blinks. He’s surprised, but struggling to be polite about it. Akira wants to vomit. “Kurusu-kun -”
“I like you, and I hate it. I like your stupid face and your stupid ego and your stupid turning everything into a game, because when I win you smile at me and when I lose I like to imagine you fucking me into next week. I cried when you told me about your mom and my dick thinks you are the hottest person alive and it hasn’t stopped even though I know you’re literally trying to kill me, and I’ve had a cough for the past month and a half and I sound like a chain smoker and it’s all your fault because you are ruining my life, you bastard .”
There’s no reply. Cognitive Akechi - fake Akechi? Fauxkechi? - is gobsmacked.
“This is me confessing, by the way.”
That seems to snap Fauxkechi out of it. “I - I am sorry, Kurusu-kun.” He sounds genuinely sorry. “But I don’t feel the same.”
Suddenly, Akira’s throat is clear.
“Oh, thank god that worked.”
“That worked - oh no.” Fauxkechi looks troubled. “Kurusu-kun. Do you have hana -”
“Yeah. Sorry about this,” Akira says, before pulling a Hypno-Mist out of his pocket and spraying Fauxkechi in his stupid, too-nice face.
He shuts the door behind him and takes a deep breath. God, that’s good. He forgot how nice it was to breathe at full capacity. That’s not the kind of thing you should be forgetting.
“All good?” Futaba asks.
Akira takes another breath, just to confirm it. “Yep. I’m cured.”
“Cool. First edition, remember.”
Akira groans. “Stop reminding me.”
The night before the infiltration, Akechi invites him to duel in Mementos. Akira hits “yes” so quickly, he drops his phone.
“You fought well, Kurusu.” He’d beat Akechi handily, thanks to some high-level Personae Igor had fused for the small fee of his goddamn life savings . Akechi doesn’t look nervous, but there’s a twitch in his left eye, which means he’s terrified.
“Impressed?”
“Indeed. You’ve been sick lately. I was afraid I’d have to hold back.”
Akira raises an eyebrow. “I got antibiotics.”
It’s a standoff. At this rate, Akira is pretty sure that they’re either going to make out or go for the kill in the next thirty seconds. Whatever breaks the tension.
Instead, Akechi yanks off a glove. “Here.”
“Your glove?”
“It’s a gift, based on the tradition of noblemen in France.” Akechi coughs. “It’s a challenge. You are my perfect rival, and one day, we will finish our duel.”
Akira picks it up and slides it onto his hand. It fits surprisingly well.
It’s the most romantic gift he’s ever gotten. If he still had hanahaki, he’d spit out an entire bouquet.
The silence hangs.
“...do you think it’s a bit dusty in here, Kurusu-kun?”
“Air feels fine to me.” He whistles, just to prove a point. “Come on, let’s go back upstairs.”
He’s killing you tomorrow, Akira reminds himself as they emerge in Kichijoji. It doesn’t help.
Akechi hovers by the entrance to Penguin Sniper. Akira is pretty sure that not only has he never seen Goro Akechi look indecisive, but this is the first time Goro has been indecisive.
“Something you want to say, Akechi-kun?”
Goro gives him a death glare. He looks…not sad, but something.
“Planning my route home.” A pleasant smile. The Detective Prince is back again, and Akira hates the facade more every time. “Have a pleasant evening, Akira.”
He disappears around the corner, but Akira spends a long time standing there. The glove is still in his pocket.
The plan goes off without a hitch. Well, the hitch of getting drugged and tortured by cops, but no unexpected hitches. (Akira needs to ask Makoto if she really wants to be police chief.)
Sae drives him to Leblanc in silence, because convincing someone to abandon their entire sense of justice and help you save the world apparently doesn’t make small talk less awkward. Plus, his bruises sting. At least Takemi won’t ask questions.
“You know,” Sae says, when they’re waiting at a busy intersection, “there was one thing I forgot to ask.”
Akira’s not sure if there are any questions left. Sae she asked about everything - for god’s sake, he told her Sojiro’s curry recipe. Maybe she’s curious about his brand of toothpaste? Least favorite Featherman Ranger? How Morgana can hold a sword with his adorable toe beans?
“How’d you cure your hanahaki?”
…oh, right. He’d left that out.
The drugs are making the car spin. Drugs that the police injected before beating the shit out of him. He really needs to talk to Makoto about her career choice.
“Found a cognitive double of Gor - Akechi in your palace,” he mutters. “Confessed to the double, then knocked him out.”
Sae perks up. “Fascinating.”
They defeated twelve waves of robots in a cognitive space station, and this is what Sae finds interesting?
“What was he like?”
“The double?”
Sae nods, honking at a passing car. Akira thinks.
“...boring.”
Sae snorts. “Tea and paperwork?”
“Yeah. He was very polite. It was awful.”
Sae sighs, leaning against the steering wheel. “I really missed the red flags with him.”
“Don’t be hard on yourself,” Akira mutters. “At least you weren’t hacking up daffodils.”
“Daffodils? As in narcissus flowers? That’s…a little on the nose.”
Akira sighs. “I promise you cannot judge me for this more than I’ve judged myself.”
Sae gives a half-smile. “That’s fair.”
The ride goes on in silence. Sae hits a speed bump, and Akira winces as his bruises hit the door.
“...god. It should be illegal, what they did to you. I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault.” Akira cringes as she hits another bump. “Talk to Makoto about it, she wants to reform the force.”
“My sister wants to what ?”
Seeing Goro in the engine room is a relief.
Akira never thought he’d trick him for long. Time is not, and has never been, on their side. But right here, right now, he thinks - he hopes- that he has enough of it to turn Goro around.
“Friendship? You think I want FRIENDSHIP, you filthy attic TRASH?”
“Joker,” Futaba hisses. “Operation Talk Him Down is a no-go.”
“Let me keep working on it!”
“WORTHLESS, pathetic MAGGOTS!”
Futaba winces. “He’s blowing out my mic.”
Goro is ripping his mask off, transforming into Black Mask with the kind of gusto Akira’s only seen when Morgana catches the laser pointer. “You think you can stop me? I’ll TEAR YOUR HEART OUT AND EAT IT BEATING!”
“Ew, like in Temple of Doom?” Ryuji mutters. “ Gross .”
Akira gestures for the Thieves to prepare for battle. Maybe ending this peacefully was a long shot. Goro’s about to summon a Persona, and Akira has a feeling it won’t be Robin Hood. He’s got maybe two seconds before this gets violent, and only one more thing to try.
“AKECHI!” he yells. “You won’t get better unless you talk to me!”
Goro freezes. Whatever evil version of Robin Hood he presumably had on deck doesn’t materialize.
“Stop trying to distract me with lies , Akira!” Goro hisses. “Why would you care if I’m better? The only thing that will make me feel better is YOU BEING DEAD!”
…interesting , Akira thinks. Being dead . He didn’t say “killing you.”
“You’re just going to get sicker! I don’t want you to DIE, Akechi!”
“BULLSHIT!” Goro roars. “Of course you want me dead! EVERYONE DOES! WHY would you want me to - ”
“Because I CARE ABOUT YOU, YOU STUPID LITTLE SHIT!”
Akira’s voice echoes throughout the engine room. Everyone is at a standstill. The silence is deafening.
Then, Goro coughs.
Jackpot.
“You - “ Another cough, harder than the last. They sound brutal, and they’re music to Joker’s ears. “This is YOUR FAULT, Akira! You did this to me, you SICK FUCK!”
“Come on, Goro.” Akira’s barely finished saying Goro’s name before he collapses in a coughing fit. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I -” another cough - “I’ll END THIS! I will RIP YOU TO SHREDS! Do you SERIOUSLY think you can - “
“Goro,” Akira sighs, fondness swelling in his chest. “Take a breath.”
“I’ll breathe when you’re DEAD!”
Akira looks behind him. Makoto is shaking her head. Morgana is covering his face. Haru is scowling. Yusuke is framing the shot. Ryuji just looks confused.
Futaba looks gobsmacked, and Ann is shaking with laughter .
“It’s - “ Goro straightens up, obviously embarrassed. “It’s dusty in here.”
“Funny. Mementos was dusty, to.”
Akechi shoots him a look of pure hatred. Akira responds with a grin.
“It’s - “ Ann is laughing so hard, she can’t even speak. “Oh my god. Oh my god .”
“Panther, what’s happening? Is he sick or somethin’?”
Mona sighs. “Please tell me you’re not that stupid, Skull!”
“He’s coughing like...wait, what the EFF?”
Makoto elbows Ryuji. “Not now, Skull!”
“But he killed like ten people!”
Haru smiles. “Yes, he did! Including my father! Thank you for the reminder, Skull!”
Behind him, the group explodes into bickering. He’s pretty sure he hears Makoto try to limit the conversation to people with dead parents, but that doesn’t help much. He ignores them all and goes to kneel by Akechi.
He’s sitting on the floor, crumpled and pathetic. Whatever sadistic fury he’d been building up, it’s gone. Now, he’s like a wild animal in a trap - lashing and biting, eyes filled with fear.
“Kurusu. Tell me how you fixed it.”
“Your double in Sae’s palace. He was very polite, before I knocked him out.”
“Fuck.”
Akechi’s in a rest between coughing spells, but Akira knows from his own experience that he’ll be at it again soon. He remembers how dry his throat felt, the relentless scratching and bitter taste, how tired it made him feel. And that was with Takemi’s medicine, and his friends to get him through the day.
How long has Akechi been fighting this alone?
“I…I didn’t want to kill you. Not with the gun.” Akechi’s staring at the floor. “I knew you’d never say anything. You’d die from it.”
Akechi looks him straight in the eye. They’ve come too far to be cowards.
“I wanted to let it take you, Akira. I wanted to choke you from the inside out.”
Most people would hate a confession like this. Most wouldn’t consider it a confession at all. But Akira’s not most people, and neither is Akechi.
“Come on,” Akira says, holding his hand out. “You can take your time to say it. And then, we’ll get your dad.”
Akechi opens his palm. There’s a long, spiky bloom in it, mottled and damp. Akira recognizes it instantly.
Aloe vera. The leaf can be used to heal wounds. The flower means affection, and also, grief.
It’s a strange, ugly flower. It’s also his favorite.
Akechi grabs his hand.