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He finds himself playing chess. The people around him, the pawns on the board. Politicians, the important, the powerful, exist as knights, bishops, rooks in his arsenal. His father, the king, lording over all of Japan from the prow of the Diet Building, watches intently.
Akechi, the trump card, the queen. He moves any direction he wants, goes as far as he likes. He is vital to the plan. Therefore, he has guaranteed immunity. He gets cocky. He leaves himself open to counterattack, to be taken out of the game. To be seen. But it doesn't matter. If he simply sees his own agenda to fruition, then he can depose the king. Not in a bid for the throne, but out of sheer malice.
His childhood tastes bitter in his mouth. One parent on his birth certificate. What his mother did to keep them alive. The stigma that comes with being a bastard son. Her suicide. The lonely desperation he plunged into, eager for any acknowledgment from Masoyoshi Shido. The dead hope for a normal childhood. The path forward, to freedom, to his father's overdue ruin.
He cuts his way through the pieces that have lost their value. Members of the press, corporate bigwigs, researchers. Successful every time. He has to remain useful to enact revenge, after all.
He doesn't think of the families. Spouses, unable to voice their love one last time. The innocent children asleep in their beds. Teenagers that will be unable to complain about their parents, rolling their eyes with affection. Adults, calling and getting no reply, told to leave a message at the beep. He can't if he wants to remain sane.
As the months roll on, as he slowly removes hordes of pieces from the checkered board, he finds himself equally matched.
Across pool tables, he sees a satisfied smile as Akira Kurusu lines up the perfect shot and is repaid with the solid clacks of pool balls, all going into the pockets, their rightful homes.
In a café, the fragrance of freshly brewed coffee and curry filling his nose. An apron. Steam wiped from glasses as a picturesque bowl is offered to him. LATTE ART? ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS ?
Sitting in a public bath, knees up to his chest, sweating through the heat. Divulging his pain, baring the weakest parts of himself. Akechi looks into Kurusu's eyes and sees the true him himself reflected in them, vulnerable, unarmored. He runs out of cards to play. The moment ends.
Battered and bloodied, an arrogant sword pressing to Kurusu's throat. A trickle of blood escapes. Akechi watches as his lips twitch, then a dagger sears over his ribs like a kiss. They collapse into a heap, bleeding together, breathing together. Akechi's naked hand sets his blade at his side, watching Mementos form and reform around them.
He feels a finger wrap around his thumb, and dumbstruck, glances at Kurusu. His hair is a mess, his mask pushed up onto his forehead. His face is scratched to hell. Scrapes peek through holes in his thief's attire. His rage begins to uncoil in his chest, settling into a low simmer. Kurusu's hand covers his own, and an exhausted grin takes over his face. He wants to tuck that mess of curls behind his ear. He wants to die from embarrassment. He's not sure what will happen first.
Instead, they make a promise. It's not until Akechi arrives back at his apartment that he notices his glove is still in Kurusu's possession. His hand flexes. Bony fingers, knobby knuckles, nails bitten to the quick. He turns out his lights. Goes to bed.
That's the thing about chess, though – the game continues on without the queen, as if it was never on the board. The game is only truly over when the king is on his last legs, cornered. Pleading on the ground for mercy, meaning none of it. There's no other way for the game to end, unless both kings are in check, perfectly matched. Akechi is no king, but Kurusu is a chessmaster. While he knows where the pieces should go, he doesn't force them. He just gives them the right guidance, lets them fall into place on their own.
The smallest slip can mean downfall. But when you never register the mistake, you don't realize you've lost until too late.
And damn, does Goro Akechi fucking hate pancakes. A plan down the drain. A chessboard shoved savagely off the table, black and white pieces abandoned on a hardwood floor. Sure, he may be conniving, but at least he wasn't eating the fucking pieces while Kurusu was occupied with other things.
Then again, Kurusu's never shot him point-blank in the head. Akechi's hand shook for hours afterwards, enough that people asked why he kept dropping his chopsticks. Unwilling to meet their eyes, he lied.
STRAIN. LONG HOURS AT WORK. YOU KNOW HOW IT IS.
YES. YOU KNOW HOW IT IS, KILLING SOMEONE.
KILLING YOU WAS LIKE KILLING A PART OF MYSELF. IT WAS LIKE GIVING UP ON EVER BEING HUMAN. I'M NOT WORTHY. I'VE DONE AWFUL THINGS. I WOULD UNDERSTAND IF YOU SPAT IN MY FACE AND NEVER TALKED TO ME AGAIN.
I IMMEDIATELY REGRETTED EVERYTHING. SHIDO THAT TV APPEARANCE WHERE I MET YOU THE PHANTOM THIEVES THE MEDIA THE PLAN.
YOU WERE SO MUCH BETTER THAN ME YOU WERE THE ME I WANTED TO BE YOU WERE THE ME I COULD HAVE BEEN IF I HAD KNOWN YOU YOU WERE ME IF I WASN'T A MONSTER WITH TEETH YOU WERE ME IF I WAS ACTUALLY FUCKING CUNNING AND I DIDN'T DO THINGS OTHERS WANTED ME TO FOR APPROVAL TO SUIT THEM UNTIL THE RIGHT TIME TO THROW THEM TO THE ANGRY MASSES
YOU WERE THE BEST PART OF ME
IT WAS ALWAYS A PART OF THE PLAN
WHAT A FUCKING STUPID PLAN
He moves through life in a daze. He is in a box. From the outside, it's impossible to tell whether he's alive or dead inside. A Schrodinger's cat paradox. He gains bags under his eyes. He loses weight. He stays inside for days, only getting out of bed to eat and bathe.
Life drifts by him in his depression. After a while, Shido's enforcers have to drag him to assignments. He does as he's told. His eyes show no life.
He's so sick and tired of the plan. Kurusu – Akira is fucking dead, and what good is he without him?
Akechi is shocked out of his haze by the news that Akira, is in fact, very much fucking alive. He shot a Mementos copy.
HE HAD LOOKED SO REAL. I COULD SEE THROUGH HIS HEAD. I WAS SICK WITH IT, WITH DISGUST, WITH REGRET, WITH SHAME. AND HE WAS FUCKING ALIVE. WHAT THE FUCK.
GRANTED. I WOULDN'T TELL SOMEONE WHO TRIED TO KILL ME I WAS ALIVE EITHER.
Still, he cannot help the pangs of anger, of rage, of fucking disappointment in himself, distaste, ferality. He's done. He's fucking done. New plan. He's going to show them he means business, show them what roars in his heart, unsoothed by the valorous hero, the glamarous shiny happy TV person. He has teeth.
One last fight. His friends can join too. For old time's sake.
He slumps against a metal grate, the only thing between him and freedom. Shido has nearly lost. At least he can take refuge in that. One measly comfort. His helm is split. Chipped pieces of his visor hang, then drop to the floor, becoming red dust. His vision begins to spot.
Being shot hurts like a bitch. He hangs onto consciousness like it's a hand keeping him from dropping into the icy depths of hell. On the other side of the grate, "I want to keep our promise" cuts through the weak heartbeat, the blood roaring in his ears. Akechi breathes in a rasp of stale air.
I want to keep our promise.
I want to keep our promise.
I want to keep our promise, echoing through his pounding skull.
I WANT TO KEEP OUR PROMISE, TOO.
He feels tethered to the metal floor, the grate, the cruise ship, the cognitive world. He is anchored in the harbor of "If Only" –
IF ONLY WE HAD MET A FEW YEARS EARLIER.
IF ONLY WE WENT TO THE SAME SCHOOLS. IF ONLY I LEFT NOTES IN YOUR LOCKER. IF ONLY I BOUGHT YOU MELON PAN. IF ONLY WE RODE THE TRAIN TOGETHER.
IF ONLY WE MET AT A COFFEE SHOP. IF ONLY YOU GAVE ME YOUR CHAT ID ON MY RECEIPT.
IF ONLY I HAD LIVED A NORMAL LIFE. IF ONLY SHE HAD MET YOU. SHE WOULD HAVE LOVED YOU.
IF ONLY I HAD TRULY BEEN ONE OF YOUR THIEVES. I SHOULD HAVE TRULY GOTTEN TO KNOW THEM. THEY MUST ANNOY YOU TO NO END. I KNOW YOU LOVE THEM TO DEATH FOR IT.
IF ONLY I HAD TRULY LET MY HEART REBEL.
IF ONLY I HAD TRULY LET MY HEART LOVE YOU, MY SOUL WOULD HAVE BEEN FREE. I WOULD HAVE BEEN CONTENT JUST PLAYING CHESS WITH YOU. MAKING COFFEE WITH YOU. BEING WITH YOU. AND I KNOW YOU WOULD HAVE HAD ME. I KNOW YOU WOULD HAVE.
I WILL FIND MY WAY BACK TO YOU. I'LL PROMISE THAT TOO.
Love eats him alive every time he sees Akira Kurusu's face. It sinks its teeth in deep, looks him in the eyes unflinchingly. Gnaws away at his patience, his composure, his image. He is not Robin Hood, who redistributes the wealth of the corrupt to the suffering poor. He is not Loki, the eternal trickster, conniving made flesh, horned like a devilish thing.
You must face it head on. Only then will you know the truth of the matter. Robin Hood and Loki drone on within the confines of his brain, his heart, his veins, every part of him. Their voices reverberate through him.
Look.
YOU ARE LOVED. YOU DESERVE LOVE.
You are not a second rate son. Shido is not deserving of being your father.
I AM THOU,
Thou art I.
They crystallize in his mind, refracting and collapsing and folding into each other. His eyes are open so wide. His head screams. His heart screams in tandem beside the hole carved into his chest. He burns. His organs cave in, then pop back into place.
LET'S FORGE A PACT, SHALL WE?
When Akechi awakes, he is in a bed. Sweat and tears congeal on his cheek. Robotically, as if he's dreaming, he pulls down the front of his shirt... No, his hospital gown. No gaping bullet hole. Just a silvery scar keeping his heart company. An IV feeds into his arm. The monitor beats in time with his pulse, rhythmic, soothing.
Biting his lip, he reaches down and pinches his leg roughly. Pain radiates under his nails, shorter and cleaner than they were when he last saw them. Finally, he notices a calendar across the room.
It reads January.
Physical therapy is a Sisyphean task when you've been sedentary for nearly a month. Akechi slowly regains the ability to move from one end of the room to the other, hands grasping parallel bars. Eventually, he can eat solid foods without it reversing course. He can flex each finger on his hand.
He can even write again with minimal struggle. He spends half a day trying to write a coherent letter to the Phantom Thieves. He spends three trying to put his scrambled thoughts to Akira into coherent words. So many crumpled paper balls crowd the floor that a separate trash bag is used to gather them up. He watches the news cycle until he's downright sick of it, and then binges Featherman for a week straight. Sae-san brings him a bouquet of yellow roses, dewy in their Rafflesia wrapper. A nurse places them on the windowsill, where she says they'll get the perfect amount of sun.
Akechi taps the disposable pen against his thigh to pass the time. Biting his lip and the bullet and killing two birds with one stone, he drafts a passable letter. Hereward, ever present in his skin, hums their assent. They sound amused. He pretends not to notice.
DEAREST RIVAL,
HELLO. I AM ALIVE.
NO, I COULDN'T THINK OF A BETTER OPENER THAN THAT. FUCK OFF. BUT IT CAUGHT YOUR ATTENTION, DIDN'T IT?
LET'S CUT TO THE CHASE, SHALL WE? I'VE BEEN RECOVERING FOR QUITE SOME TIME NOW. SAE-SAN SAYS THEY'RE PLANNING TO RELEASE ME SOON, FEBRUARY 13TH.
WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN UP TO? WHAT ARE YOU UP TO? REALLY? IF YOU HAVE AN OPENING BEFORE THEN, MAYBE YOU COULD COME AND VISIT BOTHER ME FOR A WHILE. I PROMISE I'M GOOD COMPANY. AT LEAST, MAY I COME TO LEBLANC ONCE I'M LET OUT AND SAMPLE THE FAMOUS CURRY AND COFFEE SPECIAL AGAIN?
I LOVE THE WAY YOU MAKE IT. YOU ALWAYS GET THE SPICES TO MY PREFERENCE. YOUR COFFEE IS PERFECTLY BITTERSWEET. BRING YOUR FRIENDS. EVEN. I MIGHT EVEN BE OBLIGED TO BRING MORGANA SOME SUSHI. WE COULD MAKE AN AFTERNOON OF IT. I'D LOVE TO CATCH UP. I HOPE YOU'RE NOT ANGRY AT ME.
I WANT TO HOLD TO OUR PROMISE. PLEASE LET ME SEE YOU AGAIN. THINKING OF YOU THERE, IN THAT HELLHOLE... IT KEPT ME ALIVE.
YOURS TRULY,
GORO AKECHI
P.S. YOU STILL OWE ME MY GLOVE.
He slips it into an envelope, postmarked to Leblanc, seals the letter with saliva on his thumb. Somewhat childishly, he wishes for a wax seal to press it shut, something more thematically appropriate. Akechi hands it off to the nurses anyways.
Several days later, he gets a response. He feels no shame immediately tearing it open, casting the destroyed envelope aside without reading the sender.
Kid, seriously, did no one tell you? Troublemaker is still in jail. Actually, he gets out the same day as you. Funny coincidence. Anyway, come to Leblanc whenever you want. Mine doesn't taste the same as his, but I doubt that crap you get fed at the hospital is appetizing at all.
He told me to tell you hi, though.
-Sojiro Sakura
Akechi clenches his hand, destroying the pen he was going to write a clever and witty response with. Black ink goes everywhere, seeping into the hospital sheets. It freckles on his leg, dripping down his arm. Hereward can't help but chortle.
February 14th.
Wrapped in a scarf, Akechi braves the cold of Yongen-Jaya. The winter wind is crisp, causing lungs that have relied on recycled air to ache. A bag of takeout sushi (fatty tuna, of course) and a box of truffles is tucked under his arm. The hospital ended up keeping him an extra day to confirm his condition was well. Akechi grabbed the Valentine's candy half on a whim, half in apology for being a day late, and five parts because he fucking wanted to, okay.
Inhaling deeply, he steadies himself. He hears Hereward tease him as he reaches out to open the door –
Akira beats him to it, as always. There's no space to say anything before he's tucked into strong arms. There is a face burrowed into his neck, and it is wet. "I thought you were dead," he sobs, hand rubbing his back.
"So you're not mad, then," Akechi managed, arms fastening around him in reciprocation.
"Oh, of course I'm mad. I thought you were dead, and then you weren't, you were here again, but it wasn't you, except it sort of was."
"...What the hell are you talking about?"
"Maruki had a Palace, and... actually, let's talk about it later. I'm glad you're here, Goro."
His heart spasms in his chest. His first name has never sounded so sweet. He gets caught between wondering if it tastes just as sweet stolen from Akira's mouth and fighting the urge to bite off his own arm in rabid, feral joy.
Instead, Goro leans in close, so so close to his soft mouth, pretty gray eyes with their pretty black lashes, and –
Pushes the bag into his chest, looking away bashfully. "I got Morgana's favorite." He can hear Hereward crack up under the cheerful shout of, "No way, fatty tuna? Maybe Akechi isn't totally awful!" Goro can't help but laugh himself when Akira turns to make a face through the doorway.
Akira takes the bag obligingly, but before they both enter, he takes Goro's wrist his palm. Tenderly, gingerly, he slides it onto his hand, looking into his eyes the entire time. Goro flushes uncontrollably as his hand is pressed to the plane of Akira's chest, where his heart thumps, where Arsène lies, grinning his Jack-o-lantern grin. Goro swallows hard, then grabs Akira's hand, laying it over the center of his coat. His heart pounds in his ears, and Hereward hums, placated.
Akira steps away a moment to set the bag down. As he does, his eyes widen. Goddammit, Akira Kurusu is blushing. "Valentine's chocolate," he murmurs. Morgana makes an annoyed noise, pawing through the bag for his long-awaited tuna.
As soon as he's back outside, Goro grabs him by the front of the sweater and pulls him in. It's messy. Their teeth collide. Goro's hair gets caught in Akira's glasses somehow. He doesn't care. This feeling... it's a better payoff than an immaculately planned sabotage scheme. It's what it feels like when a long con succeeds. Like puzzling at a chessboard and discovering how to lock your opponent into inescapable checkmate. The comfort of coffee and curry to warm the bones.
Akira's hands find his waist. Arsène and Hereward say hello, figure out where they're supposed to slot. They resonate with each other, connecting, conversating. A good kiss is like a dance. There is a push and pull, give and take. No one person controls it, they have to work in tandem to make it truly good. A tip of the head, a shift of a hand, eyes closing. Goro can't kiss him again fast enough, in front of Leblanc, in front of all of Yongen-Jaya, in front of all Japan. On Valentine's Day, this moment, right here, right now.
His heart is freed, keeping time with the rhythm of a trickster's rebellion.