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Akira’s bedroom is quiet. Too quiet. If Akechi strains his ears, he can hear the coffee syphons dripping downstairs. Outside, snow settles soundlessly on the windowsill, falling thickly over the tiny neighbourhood of Yongen-Jaya. There’s not even the pitter-patter of paws padding up the stairs; Morgana has been temporarily relocated to Futaba and Sojiro’s house.
It’s a far cry from Akechi’s noisy apartment in the centre of Kichijoji. He sits on Akira’s bed, then the couch, peering up at the stars. It’s rare to see them in Tokyo, given the light pollution. It occurs to him that they could be just another illusion, courtesy of Maruki’s influence - but after a moment of contemplation, he chooses to believe that they’re real. He doubts that a bleeding-heart megalomaniac could come up with a view this beautiful.
Akira appears at the top of the stairs, clutching the rail, white-knuckled. “I’ll be another five minutes, okay?” His eyes are red and raw, but he’s smiling. He looks weary - and awfully, painfully brittle, like he might fall apart any second. A deep, shameful part of Akechi wants to gather Akira into his arms and hold him until he can piece himself back together. But he just nods, reclining against the couch and crossing his arms.
Akira returns to shutting up the café for the night, and Akechi stares at the sky. He’s tired too, he realises - in a notable way that cannot be dismissed as his usual baseline exhaustion. It makes sense, given the tension that’s been humming within him, ever since he first glimpsed Wakaba on January 2nd; ever since he began to suspect that he too was a reanimated corpse, summoned to be a hostage in a madman’s final ultimatum.
Confronting that fear left him feeling drained. Perhaps that’s why he agreed to stay - just for a little while - at Akira’s request. Making his way back to Kichijoji in his current condition isn’t advisable, since he’d likely fall asleep on the train. Instead, he’ll rest for an hour or so, and then leave.
Despite the inconvenience, Akechi doesn’t resent his relieved fatigue. He‘s smart enough to know that it’s far better than the alternative.
He doesn’t know what he would’ve done if Akira had accepted Maruki’s deal. Shot himself on February 3rd, maybe. Although who’s to say that Maruki wouldn’t simply drag him back from the dead again? Sew up the hole in Akechi’s head and drop him off on the doorstep of his favourite student, good as new? Trap Akechi inside his own mind and force him to parade around this false paradise - like he’s just an empty wind-up doll for Akira to extract happiness from?
It’s repulsive. Dwelling on it makes Akechi sick. He supposes that he’s lucky Akira possesses such unshakeable resolve.
Distantly, he hears sniffling and the bathroom door swinging closed. Perhaps unshakeable isn’t the right word. Akira seems well and truly shaken - but still, he refuses to yield to Maruki’s manipulation. Weirdly, it makes Akechi feel proud. It also makes him feel tender and uncomfortable - and in dire need of a distraction.
Upon reflection, he doesn’t know what drew him the cardboard box, sitting among the shelf of coffee beans in the corner. He was restless, waiting for Akira to compose himself, but there were plenty of other attractions to occupy him. Claw-game collectibles and souvenirs from all over the city; a clunky old game system, preloaded and ready at the flick of a button; a rather garish Phantom Thieves banner to sneer at - the room had no shortage of available entertainment.
And yet, he kept coming back to the box. It was covered in a thick layer of dust, interrupted by neither fingerprints nor paw marks - as if it hadn’t been touched in a long time. Strip after strip of packing tape was stretched across the top, holding the flaps firmly shut.
The box intrigued him. He’d never noticed it before, in all the hours he’d spent in Akira’s bedroom, preparing to enter the Metaverse with the other Phantom Thieves. It made the hair rise on the back of his neck, to think that it had escaped his scrutiny until now.
Fascinating - to consider that Akira might still have some secrets to hide from the world. Something he’d conceal from his gaggle of friends and his beloved guardian; something that Akechi himself had utterly overlooked.
He saunters over to the desk, grabbing the knife that Akira uses to craft lockpicks. It’s an invasion of privacy, sure, but Akira had invited a detective into his bedroom. He couldn’t deny Akechi a bit of snooping.
Akechi kneels down next to the shelves and guides the box out of its cubby hole. Then he slices meticulously through the tape with a long, thin cut.
In the seconds before he unfolds the flaps - before he opens the box - Akechi runs through possibilities in his head. Either he’ll be surprised or disappointed by what he discovers. It could be something as innocuous as spare clothes; although that’s relatively unlikely, given the effort Akira put into sealing the box shut. In any other teenage boy’s bedroom, Akechi would expect to unearth a stash of porno mags.
Instead, he finds the box full to the brim with black leather gloves. They sit in neat rows, folded over each other like nesting animals. All the same, all— All right-handed. There are no matching pairs; only the same garment, repeated ad infinitum.
Akechi reaches out with one shaky finger, brushing the fabric.
He already knows how familiar the glove is going to feel. It’s his.
They all are.
His first thought is what the fuck?
His second thought is how? Immediately, his mind begins to compartmentalise and review possible explanations; casting aside impotent shock and searching for a solution to his confusion. Could Akira have bought copies of Akechi’s accessory? No, Akechi purchased his gloves last year and the collection has since been discontinued. Besides, the gloves don’t feel brand new. They feel soft and worn, like they’ve seen their fair share of use, and— Fucking hell, they even smell like him, under the dust - like the vetiver and oak cologne he was gifted at a TV station and has used ever since.
Could Akira have stolen them from him? No, surely not; Akechi would absolutely notice if this many gloves went missing from his wardrobe. Besides, he doesn’t even think he owns this many gloves. He sifts through the collection with growing alarm, counting ten, twenty, thirty different copies.
The headrush feels a little like standing on the edge of a very tall cliff and seeing the ground lurch up to meet him. Vertigo rocks through his body, hammering at the base of his skull. A single gust of wind could send him tumbling over the precipice. One small push from one stupid boy.
Why does Akira have these? It doesn’t make any logical sense. An uncanny feeling of dread settles over Akechi, coiling in his stomach and squeezing uncomfortably. Maybe the collection is the result of Maruki’s actualisation - but no, Akechi can’t imagine why Akira would wish for a stolen collection of gloves. Likewise, Akira doesn’t seem the type to harbour a secret paraphilia or attribute massive psychological weight to the garments. As far as Akechi can tell, there’s no discernible reason Akira would desire this. Besides, Maruki already confirmed that Akira’s wish was Akechi himself - so he can probably rule out Maruki’s influence as a tenable cause. For the first time in months, the wheedling little zealot is blameless.
That still leaves him without answers though. Is it possible that the Metaverse is just fucking with them? Could it be some remnant of Yaldabaoth’s twisted scheme to set them against each other? Sure, Akechi isn’t exactly thrilled about his discovery, but this seems like a very convoluted way to make him and Akira enemies.
There’s the sound of feet on the stairs. Akechi jerks back, caught in the act. Before he can slam the box shut, Akira comes into view, looking less harrowed than he did before.
His tired ease only lasts for a second. The smile drops off of his face when he sees what Akechi is holding. He freezes mid-step, going rigid. He doesn’t utter a single word, hackles raised like a spooked animal.
In a frenzied moment of levity, Akechi registers that he must make quite the sight for Akira to walk in on; wild-eyed and speechless, wielding a knife and a handful of gloves.
They stare at each other in silence. Akira looks like he might bolt. The seconds grate by, each one more tense than the last. The edge of the cliff is crumbling; threatening to crack. The plunge is imminent.
If Akechi is going to fall anyway, he may as well take the leap on his own terms. He opens his mouth to speak - but the instant that he does, Akira panics and starts talking. “Why did you— It’s not— Akechi, I didn’t—” He cuts himself off, clamping suddenly shut. Akechi watches the muscles in his jaw flex as he grinds his teeth, feeling numb.
Akira’s eyes are screwed shut and he’s taking deep breaths, fists trembling at his sides. Alarm creases his forehead, locking his limbs in place. Akechi’s cliff comparison resounds once again; the awkward, stiff slope of Akira’s shoulders resembles the crooked sprawl of a body, broken by a long fall.
Slowly, Akechi stands. “These are mine.” He murmurs, studying the leather with renewed focus. “Aren’t they?”
Akira’s throat bobs as he swallows, guilt written plainly across his expression. He nods.
“Why do you have them?” Akechi asks flatly, fingers tightening around the handle of the craft knife. He trusts Akira - but this wouldn’t be the first time he’s pinned his faith on the wrong person.
Akira’s brows pinch, in one last valiant attempt to keep himself together.
It doesn’t work. The dam breaks anyway. His face crumples and the tears spill over his waterline, running down his cheeks in wet ribbons. Akira is distraught and Akechi hasn’t the slightest clue how to calm him down. He used to be good at gently coaxing answers out of Akira, once upon a time - but that was before he hung up his Detective Prince mask and retired the honeyed pleasantries.
The only technique left at his disposal is force and he has a delirious vision of pressing the blunt blade to Akira’s neck; of slicing it across his skin and slicking them both in red. A cut deep enough to bleed but too shallow to be immediately fatal. That was how he used to get info out of uncooperative shadows in Mementos.
Akira sniffles, looking quietly devastated. Akechi considers how his expression would change if he knew what Akechi was picturing; if Akira knew that he bore a ugly gash in Akechi’s mind, his gullet carved open like the severed cardboard box flaps.
Akechi’s violent instincts are utterly predictable. Just more evidence of how fucked up his emotional response is. Just further proof that loving him is a dead end.
Akira’s attachment is making both of them miserable. It was almost enough to trap them in Maruki’s reality and doom the entire world, for god’s sake. And yet Akira continues to run himself ragged for a futile impossibility - for a relationship that can never and will never exist outside of their imaginations. It’s ridiculous and self-destructive; just like Akira himself.
(Briefly, Akechi wonders when he started thinking of what they could’ve had - in another life, if they’d met earlier - as a relationship. Or of Akira’s feelings as love.)
“Tell me.” He orders, smothering his climbing unease.
“Okay. Alright. This is going to sound crazy,” Akira begins, as if the Metaverse doesn’t already spit in the face of human rationality. “But I’ve... I’ve lived this year before. When I get on the train to go back home to Inaba, at the end of March... Everything starts over. My head gets fuzzy and I blink awake on a different train, pulling into Shibuya station - on April 9th, 2016. The entire year begins again and— And no-one remembers but me.”
Akechi’s lips part. The world shifts, reorganising itself beneath his feet.
“The cycle always continues.” Akira croaks, tugging at his fringe with open agitation. “Another twelve months pass. I wake up again on that same train, on that same day, arriving in Tokyo for the first time.”
The confession douses Akechi in dazed horror. A tiny part of him wants to laugh and treat this as a bizarre gag. It’s surreal and unbelievable - but Akira’s grimace is as serious as the grave. It’s clear that he’s not joking.
Akechi exhales, swaying unsteadily. His eyes dart around the attic, searching for something to ground himself with. Everything suddenly looks very different; a copy of a copy of a copy. If Akira has been repeating the year, how many degrees removed are they from the original timeline? Are all of these years sprouting from one isolated point? Or do they run parallel, like the train tracks of Mementos? Do they follow one another as they loop, overlapping like chainstitch?
Akira’s explanation outpaces Akechi’s distress. “Not even the Velvet Room attendants recalled the previous year, when I questioned them. Honestly, I thought I was going crazy. It was only after December 24th, when Igor and Lavenza were reinstated, that I got any information whatsoever. They told me that they remembered the past loops.”
Akechi’s vertigo returns as another wave of realisation washes over him. Loops - plural. “How many times have you done this?”
“Too many.” Akira admits, wiping his tear-stained face. He laughs suddenly - wryly. “I think I stopped counting around the twentieth repeat. Don’t quote me on that, though.”
Akechi drops the knife. Astonishment ripples through his body. He inhales, turning the words over in his mind. Twenty loops; twenty years. Every conversation he shared with Akira... Every exchange on the way to school, every evening at the Jazz Jin, every text... Akira must have experienced it all countless times before.
Which meant that he saw straight through Akechi, from the very beginning. Which meant that he had been lying to Akechi from their first interaction.
It casts the entire year in an awful new light. Akira had let Akechi believe that they were equals - friends, even - whilst holding all of the cards, far out of Akechi’s reach. How much did Akira know, that he had just kept to himself? How often had he used that knowledge to manipulate Akechi?
An icy, prickling sensation runs up his spine. It strangles him, cinching around his throat like barbed wire. His sympathy for Akira shrivels and dies. He feels... deceived. Betrayed. “And you never told me.” He states, in cold monotone. “In eight months, you never told me.”
Akira’s head jerks up, startled by the overt bitterness. Then he wilts pathetically, chin resting against his chest. “I’m sorry.” He whispers, oozing shame. “I’m so sorry, I couldn’t— I tried to tell people before and it... It ruined everything. I couldn’t do it again.”
White-hot, indignant rage flares inside Akechi, burning up any delicacy he might have maintained. “I don’t give a fuck if it ruined anything!” He spits, flinging his arm to the side. “You lied to me, you kept god-knows how much information a secret, you... How can I trust a word you’ve said? For all I know, you’ve been fucking using me, steering me to do whatever you want, just like—”
“No!” Akira cuts in, stricken. “No, I never used you, I swear to god. I promise.” He’s gulping in quick, desperate gasps, on the verge of sobbing. “Please, I swear, I just wanted to avoid this. I didn’t hide it from you for any other reason.” His eyes are bleeding with emotion, begging Akechi to believe him.
Somewhere, beneath the overwhelming ire, Akechi registers how odd it is to see Akira like this. Typically, he was laconic and calm, only occasionally rising to Akechi’s baiting. In the Metaverse, he was showy and quick to crack a joke, but never sad or downtrodden, no matter how hard the Palaces were. Akechi always sensed that Akira was hiding rancour he’d rather not address, but this undisguised sorrow is a new look for him. It stings in Akechi’s chest, dampening his anger.
He hates how it affects him; how deep and unavoidable his attachment to Akira is. It collects around his sternum in a cloying knot.
“I don’t care what you wanted.” He bites back. “I had a right to know.”
Akira deflates, cupping his hands over his mouth. He inhales shakily, straining with the effort of keeping his tears at bay. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
The apology seems genuine. Akechi’s nose wrinkles as he watches Akira shudder, shoulders drawn up around his ears. He feels the urge to cling to his fury, but it fades without his input, gradually withering into faint hostility. Then even that is drowned out by the curiosity worming its way into his brain. His attention shifts, returning to Akira’s previous statements... trying to process the onslaught of revelations therein.
His mouth twists into a disbelieving frown as he thinks. “Why is the year replaying?” He demands, brow furrowing. “What do you gain from it?”
Akira swallows, glancing warily at Akechi - anticipating another eruption of anger. When none comes, he huffs humourlessly, scrubbing his wet cheeks with his sleeve. “I don’t exactly have a choice in the matter. I’m not doing this deliberately.”
Akechi scowls, suspicious. “But you were... Lavenza called you a Trickster, in the nurse’s office. When we fought her in the Velvet Room, she said you were their champion. Their hero. He who will save the souls of humanity.” Surely she and Igor must respect Akira a little, if they were willing to grant him such a ridiculously grand title. So why would they... “She said you weren’t supposed to be a prisoner of fate anymore.”
All Akira can offer is a desultory shrug. “I’ve asked them for reasons, but they just spout the same old riddles. One’s heart guides one’s path, and all that. Supposedly, it’s not them doing this.”
“Then who the fuck is it?” Akechi barks. It comes out more emphatically than he intended - but the incessant ambiguity is reigniting his frustration.
Akira shakes his head and sits heavily down on the bed. “Me.” He says, gesturing to himself with a defeated sigh. “They said it’s a result of my own distorted desires.”
Akechi’s breath catches. All of the lingering irritation is shocked out of him in an instant. He stares at Akira dumbly, too bewildered to respond. He knew that Akira had more going on beneath the surface than he liked to let on; that he donned a mask at times, just like Akechi; that he struggled with himself behind closed doors and away from prying eyes. But this...
This is on another level entirely. It’s dizzying in its severity. And it’s horrifically, sickeningly ironic. Akira Kurusu, leader of the Phantom Thieves and bane of all those who harbour deformed hearts, is trapped in his own distortions. What a twist of fate.
“Do you know why?” Akechi asks hoarsely.
Akira flinches and shrinks behind his glasses. “Igor hinted...” He trails off, chewing his lip. The light from the attic’s bare bulb slides across his lenses, hiding his eyes.
Akechi can’t get a read on his expression. His vision swims. “Hinted what?” He presses, heart pulsing in his throat.
Akira’s brows spasm as he twists himself in knots, caught between warring sentiments. Finally, he looks up. When he speaks, his voice is toneless and thin. “That it has something to do with you,” he finishes, with the tired resignation of a soldier facing the firing squad. As if he expects Akechi to throttle him for his foolishness.
Akechi is tempted, he’ll admit. As the weight of comprehension crashes over him, he can form only one coherent thought: Akira is such a fucking idiot. Such a goddamn moron, such a complete simpleton that it dazzles him. It boils Akechi’s blood, filling his veins with liquid fire. The rage he feels is volcanic. He wants to grab Akira and hit him; to demand to know why he’s folding in on himself, instead of screaming in Akechi’s face.
Akechi is the worst thing that’s ever happened to him and yet Akira doesn’t even have the wherewithal to seem angry. If their roles were reversed, Akechi would blame Akira; he’d hate him, for locking the world into this implacable cycle. But Akira merely sits there, with glassy eyes and a trembling lip. He looks crestfallen.
Akechi’s stomach clenches painfully. The inside of his mouth tastes sour. “I cannot fathom why you would desire this.” He lies, digging his nails into his palms to keep from lashing out. “Or why your reasoning involves me.”
Akira lifts his shoulder, in a weak half-shrug. He offers Akechi a rueful smile and it reminds him of a rainy evening, months and months ago - back in November, a few days before Sae’s Palace deadline. Akira had called him to the Jazz Jin, and they’d met outside of Penguin Sniper, sheltering from the drizzle under an alcove. Akira had stood - wind ruffling his hair, backlit by the darts lounge’s fluorescent door - and given Akechi a sad little grin; like he knew that this was the last time they’d have together. In retrospect, Akechi understands that Akira had known. He had been perfectly aware that Akechi was planning his murder and counting down the days until November 20th. And yet, he’d invited Akechi out anyway.
Akira slumps against the bed. He stares into the middle distance, looking very faraway. “The first time,” he confesses, “I thought I could change things.”
“And you were wrong.” Akechi tentatively guesses.
Akira shakes his head. “I was right. Some things did change - small stuff, like my grades or the specific Personas in my roster. Conversation choices, who I spent my time with on any given day, which part-time jobs I signed up for - that kind of thing. Never a significant diversion though. Paddling against the current only gets you so far. Some incidents seem to be inevitable. Like when Shiho...” He trails off, wincing.
The name is familiar. Akechi remembers seeing it in a file outlining the Kamoshida case. Shiho Suzui, the young volleyball player who attempted suicide after being sexually assaulted by her coach. He still remembers the revulsion he’d felt whilst skimming through Kamoshida’s confession - vile enough to break through his carefully-constructed apathy. It was disturbing to read his crimes in his own words - but what really scared Akechi was the slow, needling spike of horror, as he became newly aware of the potency of the Thieves’ powers.
“I asked Lavenza about it and she said that I can’t change anything outside of my main objective. If I could, the timeline would get messy.” Akira plays with his fringe, sounding forlorn. Akechi watches him comb his curls, nails digging into his scalp. “Contradictions would form; the narrative fabric would start unravelling. Sort of like how one wrong track-change is enough to knock a train off the rails.”
Akechi, who has quite a bit of experience in sending trains off the rails, doesn’t respond. For a moment, they sit in silence; Akira stewing in his grief, and Akechi struggling to comprehend the successive revelations. A tension headache is forming at the base of his skull. He rubs his nape, and asks a slightly safer question - if only to buy himself some time to process all of this. “How does it feel? To skip through time like that? When the year begins?”
“How does it feel to use your powers in the Metaverse?” Akira counters, gesturing tiredly to nothing in particular. “It’s equally unexplainable. I don’t really get the mechanics. But if I had to... I guess I’d describe it as sort of like a boomerang. Or like a spring stretched too tight. Eventually it flies back to its starting point, or bounces back into its original shape, no matter how hard you throw or pull or strain to achieve the opposite. Everything returns to how it was.”
It’s jarring how quickly the explanation makes sense to Akechi. He can picture it; time stretched to its breaking point - letting Akira believe, for just a moment, that it might finally snap - before recoiling and hurtling back to the start.
Akira’s throat bobs, and he suddenly looks like he’s cut from glass; all sharp edges, from his jaw to his collarbones. Akechi has the abrupt, inexplicable urge to tear off the loose shirt Akira is wearing, and see if his ribs are equally sharp. To squeeze him and see if he’ll shatter. He’s crying quietly and the open vulnerability makes Akechi want to walk down the attic stairs and abandon Leblanc without a backwards glance.
But if he leaves Akira like this, he can’t guarantee that he’ll be ready to fight Maruki tomorrow. Although... frankly, the battle with Maruki feels rather inconsequential, now that he knows the full scope of their situation. Even if they successfully escape this reality, they’ll just end up stuck in it again, the next time the year loops back on itself. And he won’t even remember - only Akira will, defying fate as he falls to pieces.
“Why are you doing this to yourself?” Akechi demands, crossing his arms and digging his nails into his biceps. “Why do you, on whatever distorted level, want this?” He’s salting Akira’s wounds by asking - but he needs some kind of logical justification for this. He needs an explanation that he can rationalise and pick apart; that he can understand.
Akira’s hands shake. “I don’t know. I can’t— Even if I don’t engage at all, the months still pass. The year still starts over. I’ve taken every possible option. I’ve tried to avoid you or only speak to you when absolutely necessary. I’ve tried spending every possible second with you - and it doesn’t make any fucking difference. I’m sorry, but I can’t just keep— I have to believe that there’s a reason for all this. A genuine, undeniable reason that I’ve been forced to watch you die this many times.” He exhales, rubbing his face. When he lowers his hand, his eyes are darting warily from side to side. He looks scared. “I think,” he murmurs, “that the cycle is about trying to prevent your death.”
Akechi makes a sound of disbelief, so loud that Akira’s despondency is momentarily interrupted. He looks up, hurt, and Akechi hates him all over again - for his selflessness, and his idealism and his soft grey eyes. “I don’t need a saviour.” He spits, with acidic venom. “We’ve been over this. I thought you were smart enough to understand me the first time. I died in the Engine Room. That fact is inalterable. If you were hoping to change it, you’re about two months too late. Maybe me dying twenty times in a row is your sign to give up.”
The tirade is far harsher than he intended - but he can’t take it back now. He’s confronted, yet again, with the unfortunate truth: he doesn’t know how to help or comfort Akira... because no-one ever taught him how to hold onto people gently. Everything and everyone he’s ever cared about has been left with claw marks and scratches.
Akira and him are so wrong for each other. All they do is fight and cause each other misery. They’re awful together - and Akira doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t even react to Akechi’s rant, staring straight ahead, fingers fidgeting with his fringe.
Eventually, he sighs. “Maybe. But... You said yourself, in... In the Engine Room, that you wished things could’ve turned out differently. That we could’ve met sooner. Right?”
When it becomes clear that he isn’t going to continue without acknowledgement, Akechi nods shortly.
“This is like that. Only - the year never starts early enough. I can never get there in time. You’re already working as a hitman and tangled up in Shido’s conspiracy.” Akira’s face twists into a teary glare, and Akechi registers, with an unsteady jolt, that he’s angry at himself. “I can never get to you soon enough.”
The admission rings with despair. Every syllable contains a world of desolation that Akechi can only glimpse; a profusion of pain and disappointment that is Akira’s alone to bear.
At that moment, Akechi realises that Akira isn’t going to stop this cycle until he kills himself. He blames himself for all of this, that much is obvious. And he’s destroying his life; it’s written in the bruised shadows under his eyes and the bone-deep exhaustion in his frame. He demonstrably has no self-preservation instincts when it comes to Akechi - and admittedly, a part of Akechi revels in the fact that Akira would go this far. A part of him is glutted with the knowledge that Akira would grind himself into dust, for the slightest possibility that Akechi might survive. The enormity of feeling that Akira must hold in his heart, to act this way, is breathtaking.
Akechi has never been loved this much, not by anyone. Not even by his mother. He feels that love slough off his skin, ripping away his defences until all that remains is his screaming, aching core.
His chest stings with the effort of keeping his emotions in check. He wishes he could skip to tomorrow, after everything has fallen apart and he’s been safely confined to oblivion. He wishes he’d punched Akira, back when he was mad enough to ignore his anguish. He wishes... for a lot of things.
Akira shakes his head, running his hand through his hair. “It’s too late. I know I’ve left it too late to change things. I should’ve—”
“You should’ve told me.” Akechi cuts in, his voice bouncing around the walls of the attic. The exclamation is raw and furious. “Keeping this from me is the stupidest fucking thing you’ve ever done. We’re fighting Maruki tomorrow, we can’t—” He stops, massaging his temples and trying to wrestle himself back under control. “Ok. We don’t have any time. We can’t fix this in twenty-four hours.”
Bitterness steals across Akira’s face, pursing his lips into a grimace. “We couldn’t fix this even if we had months.”
“Have we ever tried?” Akechi retorts, flinging his arms out. “You’ve never even fucking told me - have you?”
“I...” Akira trails off, biting his tongue. Guilt creeps into his expression. “...No.”
Akechi groans, even though it’s the answer he expected. Akira is such a basket case; in twenty years, he never decided that it might be a good idea to tell Akechi, the source of his predicament, about said predicament.
Smothering his irritation, Akechi thinks back to their argument. “You have told people before, though.”
Akira is avoiding eye contact, his gaze fixed on the naked bulb behind Akechi. “Yeah.” He mumbles quietly, wringing his hands. “I told my friends - the other Thieves. It didn’t end well. I figured that if it upset them as much as it did... then it was probably best for me to handle things on my own.”
“And how’s that working out for you?” Akechi mutters, grinding his teeth. He can just picture how Akira probably justified it to himself, locking everything away as he spiralled into neuroses. Stupid, tragic leader, sacrificing himself over and over, and never expecting a thing in return. So altruistic. So noble. Akechi wants to grab Akira and bury his nails in his flesh; to peel off the heroic carapace and expose the ugly, twisted distortions lurking underneath. Let Akira try to defend those.
Akira says nothing, offering only a humourless snort. He sits before Akechi, collapsed on his bed.
Akechi clenches his fists, staring down at the exhausted sprawl. He would pace - to work off some of his built-up energy - but he doesn’t want to take his eyes off Akira. His heartbeat is a hummingbird, beating its wings frantically against his ribs. “This clearly isn’t working, Akira. You need help. You need to tell them about this.”
“No!” Akira bursts out, looking both helpless and resolute. “You didn’t see them, Akechi. Haru looked at me like I’d killed her puppy. Futaba cried. So did Ann. Ryuji almost broke a cup. They spent the rest of the month tiptoeing around me, and whispering when they thought I was out of earshot. They were so distracted that we missed Okumura’s deadline.”
“Because they were worried about you!” Akechi explodes, patience running out at precisely the wrong moment - when Akira was beginning to share. He reigns himself back in, trying for a more measured tone. “Right. Did any one of them express, in even the mildest terms, that they wished you hadn’t told them? That they’d prefer for you to spiral and struggle on your own?”
A bead of sweat rolls down Akira’s forehead, joining the tear tracks already marring his cheeks. “They... They wouldn’t say something like that, but I know they probably thought it—”
“No, you don’t, Akira. You’re not a mind-reader. And I don’t know how you remember your friends, but I remember them as obstinate do-gooders - to their own detriment. They were against hurting Maruki, whom they deeply resent. So why the fuck do you think they’d want their leader, whom they professedly adore, to suffer?”
Akira shakes his head - but he’s listening.
Akechi presses further. “If the situations were reversed, would you want one of them to tell you that they were trapped in a timeloop?” Check.
Akira lurches into an upright position. “Of course.” He replies immediately.
Akechi nods. “So why do you think they’d feel any differently towards you?” Mate.
Akira opens his mouth... and falters. Uncertainty flickers across his face, chipping away at the congealed detachment. He’s hesitating.
After a long pause, Akechi sighs. “Look, fine. Whatever. Don’t tell them. And you were right before - it probably is too late to fix this now. But next time around, next loop - tell me. Even if you insist on keeping your friends in the dark, tell me. I deserve to know. I have the right to know.”
Akira winces, regret draining the colour from his cheeks. “I know. But—”
“But nothing. Tell me. Reveal something that you could only know if you’d already lived through the year. Predict events to me exactly and then watch as they happen in real time. Show me your fucking glove collection. Anything.” He’s gaining momentum, gesturing wildly between Akira and himself. “Prove to me that you’ve lived this reality before. That you know everything that has happened and will happen. And then ask for my help. I... probably won’t agree to a proposition from a random stranger, so get to know me a little first - but if you’re reasonable, I will agree.”
If the multitude of gloves proves anything, it’s that their bond has persevered throughout the cycles. Akechi is certain that if Akira leverages that connection correctly, he’ll be able to convince Akechi to assist him. With both of them working to prevent his death... Well, it’s the best chance they’ve got. Akira clearly can’t solve this on his own, regardless.
Akira is tugging on his fringe again - but he’s thinking. Wavering.
Akechi’s arms fall to his sides and he manages a smirk. “Take it as a dying wish, if you must. Just do it.”
Akira huffs out a sound that might’ve been a laugh, if he had been less choked-up. Eventually, he lifts his chin and meets Akechi’s gaze. Something very faint is alight in his eyes. It’s not hope - not quite yet - but his devastation no longer seems to swallow him. “Okay,” he whispers, like a final surrender. “Okay, I will.”
Air rushes into Akechi’s lungs. He’d been holding his breath, he realises, dropping his shoulders. Triumph courses through his veins, darting up his spine and exploding like a firework in his head. He’s dizzy with it. He rocks forward, almost hugging Akira... but pulling up short at the last second. His fingers quiver, impotent and unsure - until he presses them, hard, into his palms. “Good.” He says simply, folding his arms and nodding decisively. “You made the right choice.”
Akira’s eyes fall closed. “Yeah. Yeah, I probably did.”
Akechi reaches out and offers Akira a brisk pat on the shoulder. The aftershock is palpable. Akira shivers.
Akechi pulls his coat tighter around himself and prepares to leave. He’s done what he came here for. He’s gotten confirmation that they’re fighting Maruki and that Akira isn’t giving up. They’ve already gone over the Thieves’ strategy for the battle tomorrow. There really isn’t much else to say - yet Akechi finds himself lingering at the top of the stairs.
Akira watches him expectantly. When the hushed seconds stretch onwards, he opens his mouth. "How exactly do you want me to convince you?”
Akechi frowns. “I already told you - talk to me before all of this shit with Maruki happens. Wait until we’ve gotten to know each other, so I don’t dismiss you as insane. What you choose as proof isn’t important, so long as it’s convincing. I already gave you two possible options.” A caveat occurs to him whilst he’s speaking. “Uh. Just nothing to do with... Shido. You’ll have less Metaverse experience at that point; it would probably be best not to provoke me.” He can’t promise that he won’t react violently if Akira reveals that he’s aware of the conspiracy.
“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Akira mumbles, summoning a wobbly smile. “I retain my Personas from the previous loops. I’d be able to hold my own.”
Despite everything, Akechi’s competitive streak flares up. “Is that so? Perhaps I’d take you out in the real world instead.” He declares, striding forwards until he’s standing over Akira again.
Akira shrugs, humour returning in fits and starts. “Shouldn’t be a problem either. I went to the gym a lot over the past two decades.” Weakly, he mimes punching. “I’d put up a good fight.”
Akechi snorts witheringly, unimpressed by the display. Then, after momentary contemplation, he walks over to the couch and sits down on it, facing Akira. Slowly, he removes his scarf, folding it neatly in half and laying it next to him. He’s tired from an hour of arguing, he reasons to himself as he reclines against the lumpy cushions. Once he’s rested properly, he’ll leave.
It eliminates the awkward, liminal undertone of their conversation, since neither of them are waiting for his imminent departure anymore. They settle into their respective spots and the building tension dissolves. Akira’s smile widens slightly.
The nauseating fear that infected the attic, just minutes ago, is gone. Against all odds, Akechi feels somewhat at peace.
Akira appears to be doing better as well, given that he’s no longer yanking his hair out. He turns his back to Akechi - a sign of trust, really - and rests his elbows on the window sill.
They sit there, in their shallow pool of silence, watching the stars. It’s kind of nice, in a detached way - to trace the same constellations with two pairs of eyes. What does Akira think of the shimmering galaxies, visible above the neon lights of Tokyo, Akechi wonders. Does he suspect, like Akechi, that they might be fake?
In a novel - in a detective adventure where the heroes have finally solved the climactic problem and can relax - this would be the end of the story. The narrative would conclude with them enjoying the beauty of the night sky, optimistic and buoyed by their shared determination.
Instead, Akira spins on the bed, legs crossing beneath him. His gaze slides over the floor, gradually making its way to Akechi. He stares, openly studying the steady rise and fall of Akechi’s chest; the twitch of his expression; the way he taps his foot.
Akira’s attention is wholly fixed on Akechi, for the first time in almost an hour. The agony of Maruki’s ultimatum and the clinging grief of the previous timelines has faded. Once again, he’s free to just look at Akechi - and Akechi would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a tinge of satisfaction at the renewed focus.
“You really think we can fix this?” Akira asks, voice low.
“Stranger things have happened.” Akechi reminds him.
Akira nods slowly, contemplating that. In the hush, Akechi remembers something. “You never explained how you collected my gloves.”
“Oh.” Akira pauses. “Right. I noticed, after the year began again, that not everything reset. I got to keep what was in my pockets, as well as some stuff in the Metaverse - skill cards and equipment, mostly. And some of the farewell presents my friends gave me showed up at Leblanc when I arrived. According to Lavenza, any item found in my heart can be preserved. So... things with sentimental value sometimes stick around - like Valentine’s chocolates or goodbye letters.”
“Valentine’s chocolates?” Akechi interrupts, nose wrinkling.
His face must reveal something unintentional, because Akira snickers. “Giri-choco, I mean.”
“Oh.” Akechi is immediately, embarrassingly placated by the clarification. He tosses his head, shaking off the discomfiture.
Akira continues to chuckle. The attic light falls less harshly upon his face, now that his misery has abated. Instead of deepening the shadows in his puckered brow, it glints off his teeth, catching in his lashes and brightening his eyes.
If Akechi was one for mawkish stupidity, he might consider the awkwardness worth it, to hear Akira laugh sincerely again. However, mawkish stupidity is more Akira’s wheelhouse - so he simply rolls his eyes and changes the subject. “You underestimated the number of repeats, by the way. There were at least thirty gloves in the box. Presumably, there were some timelines where you didn’t duel me... So it must’ve been more than thirty years.”
Akira blinks, going perfectly still. “That many?” He murmurs, lost in thought. He looks very detached, all of a sudden. His gaze drifts and Akechi senses a distance - a disconnect - opening between them. Dread scratches quietly at his sternum as Akira sinks further and further into his memories. It reminds him, abruptly, of the way his mother would sometimes retreat from the world, disappearing inside her own head when life got too tough. Akechi hated it then, and he hates it now; it makes him want to shake them and plead don’t go where I can’t follow.
“Yes.” He says loudly, snapping Akira out of his contemplative daze. “You can check if you don’t believe me.”
Obligingly, Akira rises from the bed, trudging across the floor and bending down. But instead of inspecting the box, he pivots and grabs something from the ground. When he straightens, he’s holding a sliver of silver. Ah - the craft knife.
He does nothing to indicate that Akechi should apologise for prying... which is convenient, since Akechi has no intention of seeking forgiveness. Akira merely walks past without comment, setting the knife down on his desk.
Then he circles back, lowering himself onto the left side of the couch. There are several inches between them, but Akira perches on the far edge of his seat, ready to stand again if Akechi gives the slightest sign that he’s unhappy with this arrangement.
A few metres away, the cardboard box lies, gutted. Its insides are spread across the floor - knocked over in their initial confrontation. The gloves are scattered and probably getting dirty, but Akira doesn’t spare them a glance. His eyes remain fixed on Akechi, even as he fiddles with a lock of his hair. He’s present again - no longer withdrawn and unresponsive.
The silence stretches, taut and heavy with... something. Tension. Possibility. Akechi watches Akira fidget, an ocean of unvoiced sentiments swimming in his irises - daring him to speak first.
Eventually, Akira takes the bait. “Akechi,” he starts, shifting in his seat. “Can I...”
He doesn’t continue. “Can you what?” Akechi prompts brusquely. He waits for an answer, but none comes. Akira chews the inside of his cheek, unable to summon the right words.
Then, ever so slowly, he places his hand in the space between them. It hovers there gingerly, trembling against the couch - like it might retreat any second.
Akechi stares at it, inspecting the bitten nails and the fine, fragile bones, twitching beneath the surface. The knuckles are pale and unbruised. You’d never guess, looking at Akira’s hands, that they could juggle knives or shoot with pin-point accuracy.
They’re probably calloused. Akira doesn’t seem like the type to use lotion; he doesn’t even wear gloves during winter, for god’s sake. Akechi reaches out, turning Akira’s hand over and pinning it to the cushions. Akira makes a startled noise, but he doesn’t protest.
As Akechi thought - the skin is chapped. He can tell, even through his own gloves, that Akira’s palms are rough. He thumbs across Akira’s wrist - and pauses when he feels the insistent throb of Akira’s pulse, beating so quickly that it feels like one buzzing constant.
It’s reaching the point of medical concern. Akechi studies Akira with mild alarm, tracking the bobbing of his throat as he swallows once, twice, three times. “This heart rate isn’t healthy.”
“Yeah, probably not.” Akira confirms thickly, voice lurching with uncontrollable affection. Something flashes across his expression, lighting-fast - but before Akechi can decipher the emotion, Akira links their fingers together.
Oh. Akechi’s stomach seizes, performing a strange, flip-flopping motion. His eyes dart between Akira’s face and their hands, heat prickling across his nape. He could pull away; he should pull away, probably. Yet for some reason, he doesn’t.
Warmth spreads outwards from where they’re connected - slow and almost imperceptible, like ink flowing through water. Akira’s palm is a bit clammy... but overall, it’s sort of soothing to feel his thumb tracing soft circles across the back of Akechi’s hand.
Curiosity strikes him. “Have we ever done this before?” He gestures to their knotted fingers. “In the previous loops?”
“No,” Akira confesses, shaking his head. Two faint splotches of pink burn high on his cheeks. “This is... new.” He adjusts his glasses, tucking back a stray curl - and Akechi notices that his ears are dusted with pink too.
They’re quite close, he realises, when he feels the hot puff of Akira’s breath against his face. Very close, in fact, he registers as Akira lifts his right hand, stroking Akechi’s hair and gently cupping the back of his neck. Extremely close, he thinks, as Akira inches forwards, eyes fluttering shut, and—
Their lips brush, barely ghosting over each other. Akechi feels a tidal wave of emotion roil in his chest, surging, threatening to overflow. His fingertips tingle, spasming against Akira’s wrist. The angle is awkward and Akira leans in further, the frames of his glasses nudging Akechi’s brow.
And it’s too much. It’s too raw, too soon. Akechi will be gone tomorrow, so perhaps he should be wallowing in selfish final indulgences - but the knowledge that he’ll disappear in a matter of hours burns like acid in his throat. And... despite everything, the memory of Akira’s deception sticks with him, sour on his tongue. It curdles, reminding Akechi that regardless of his motives, Akira still lied by omission - for months. Akechi understands a little of why Akira did it, after hearing about Okumura’s missed deadline... but still, he doesn’t think he’s ready to forgive and forget.
Resentment and affection are not a good combination. They suffocate him, driving the air from his lungs. They scratch under his skin, making him want to recoil and curl in on himself. They needle him with the undeniable conviction that this is wrong.
Maybe it’s hypocritical of him to be angry with Akira for withholding information. He spent a significant portion of their acquaintance doing the exact same thing.
Nonetheless, it’s how he feels. Knowing that his displeasure is illogical doesn’t make it any easier to stomach.
Maybe they’ll get another shot at this, down the line, once Akira figures out how to tell him about the timeloops - but right now, this is too much.
“Wait.” Akechi murmurs against Akira’s lips, tilting his chin away.
Akira pulls back immediately. When Akechi doesn’t say anything else, his eyes widen. “Oh. I’m sorry.” Mortification paints him dark red, from his forehead to his collarbones. He looks stricken. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“Shut up,” Akechi interrupts, grabbing Akira’s arm before he can retreat and get the wrong idea. “I want to.”
“You...” Now Akira looks confused, mouth opening and closing dumbly. He seems caught between scrambling off the couch and kissing Akechi again.
Akechi places a firm hand on his chest. Akira’s heart thumps under his fingers, just as frantic as before. “I want to,” he reaffirms, chasing the last of the horror from Akira’s face. “But this isn’t the right time.” It’s too late, too painful to open this wound now; to rip open the hasty stitches keeping them both from bleeding out on the attic floor.
Akira’s face crumples like tissue paper, crestfallen. “It never is,” he whispers, his sad little smile trembling.
Against Akechi’s better judgement, he feels a flicker of irritation. Akira’s previous self-pity was justified, but this dejection is entirely unwarranted. He starts to say as much - but Akira is already standing, sliding out of his grasp and turning away. And Akechi... Akechi doesn’t know what grips him, but he yanks Akira back, clapping a hand over his mouth to muffle any further laments.
He leans in, and presses a firm kiss to the back of his own hand - right over Akira’s mouth.
Akira’s lips part beneath his palm. He’s shocked still, eyes as wide as dinner plates. Akechi feels goosebumps rise on his arms, as the heat radiating from Akira’s flushed face soaks through his glove. It tastes, unsurprisingly, like leather. He half-expects to be hit with the same discomfort as before - but the barrier between their mouths keeps him grounded. Close, but not too close. No bitterness emerges from the indirect kiss; only the promise that in another timeline, they’ll get more than this.
They break apart. Akechi threads his fingers through Akira’s hair, resting their foreheads together - keeping Akira from pulling away. “Next time, it will be.” He swears, words laden with conviction.
He’s clutching Akira’s curls so tightly that he’s sure it must hurt, but Akira offers no complaints, even when Akechi removes his hand from his mouth. Instead, he tips into the touch, baring his jugular.
Then, as carefully as he can, he wraps his arms around Akechi. On reflex, Akechi’s iron grip on his hair loosens, and Akira lists forward, head coming to a rest on his shoulder.
Everything grinds to a halt. Neither one of them says anything. Akira sighs against Akechi’s neck, fists clenching in the fabric of his coat.
It’s... weird. Akechi has been in far more dangerous situations, with his back pressed against the wall and guns trained on him from all angles - yet he’s never felt more vulnerable than he does right now. No blades or masks or secrets between them; just the steady warmth of another body against his.
After a few minutes, Akira lets out an amused huff, chest vibrating with the sound.
“What?” Akechi demands, automatically on the defensive.
“Nothing. You’re just very stiff.”
“Rigor mortis, perhaps.” Akechi grumbles, squeezing Akira in retaliation. Unlike his previous imaginings, Akira doesn’t shatter into glass shards; he stays whole and human. Sharp but not fragile.
Akira’s mirth fades and he stifles a yawn. Akechi surreptitiously reaches into his pocket, checking the time on his phone.
“It’s almost midnight.” He observes, gazing at the blinking numbers. “The trains will stop running soon.”
Akira ducks out of the embrace, getting his own look at the screen. Disappointment washes over him when he sees that Akechi is telling the truth; that their remaining minutes together are numbered.
“You could stay,” he proposes tentatively.
Akechi eyes the dubious stack of crates that Akira calls his bed and politely doesn’t respond.
Akira notices. “It’s comfier than it looks, I promise.”
“I’m not sure that we’d both fit.” Akechi says diplomatically, crossing his arms.
“So what?” Akira shrugs. His tiny grin is indulgent. “I’ll sleep on the floor. Or the couch.”
The unashamed generosity makes Akechi scowl, even as affection blooms in his chest. He tries to think of another excuse.
Akira‘s smile softens. “It’s okay if you want to go home. But... for what it’s worth, I’d really like you to stay.” The sentiment hangs in the air, gathering gravity. Akira must sense the weight it exerts, because he follows up, “Plus, it’d be easier to prepare to fight Maruki tomorrow, if we’re already in the same place.”
The casual closing statement makes it easier to view the invitation in simple terms. Akechi is worn out and frankly, in no mood to trek through the late-night crowds that swarm Kichijoji‘s bar district. Akira is offering him a convenient - albeit shabby - bed, and a chance to avoid the chore of getting home.
It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that, if Akechi doesn’t want it to. It’s just sleeping over at a friend’s house. Most high-schoolers have probably experienced this at least once.
“Fine.” He mutters, unbuttoning his coat. He hears Akira inhale and tenses, expecting an annoying comment. But to his surprise, Akira keeps his mouth shut. He nods decisively, looking happier than he has all evening - and begins to tidy around the room, packing away the gloves with a spring in his step. It’s kind of cute, Akechi thinks, before his common sense kicks in and jettisons the useless notion.
After some rummaging downstairs, Akira emerges with a spare pillow and a thin blanket, presumably reserved for summer months. He tries to insist that the threadbare cover is for his own use, but Akechi snatches it from him and tosses the duvet onto the couch. It’s hardly fair if he takes Akira’s bed and the nicer quilt.
“Are you sure? It’s cold by the window,” Akira warns him.
Akechi pointedly ignores the advice, folding his coat and scarf into one neat pile. When he turns back, Akira is holding out a loose pyjama top and a pair of tracksuit bottoms.
Funnily enough, Akechi hadn’t considered that he’d have to wear Akira’s clothes. He stares at the offending garments for several seconds, debating the pros and cons of sleeping in his slacks and button-up shirt.
Reason wins out in the end. He takes the loungewear from Akira, mumbling his thanks. Akira tactfully turns around when he takes off his shirt, but Akechi catches him sneaking a few glances whilst they change - just like at the bathhouse. It’s not unexpected.
He peels off his gloves, tucking them into his stack of clothes. “Don’t steal them for your collection,” he orders Akira, who chuckles. Akechi catches a glimpse of his bare shoulders, shaking with laughter, and immediately redirects his gaze to the floor. It’s pretty solid, despite the uneven panelling. The wood grain is quite rough though; as an attic, it obviously wasn’t meant for regular use. Sojiro likely hasn’t had it sanded or varnished since he bought this place.
Eventually, Akira is decent and Akechi can stop dredging his mind for facts about flooring.
They sit down on their makeshift beds, facing one another. Akira doesn’t say a word. He just smiles, looking desperately fond.
It’s quickly becomes difficult to meet his eye. Akechi swallows down the odd tenderness rising in his throat, lying back with finality. “Good night.”
Akira stands and the light flickers off. In the dark, the world seems a lot smaller; like it’s just them and a couple of stars, blinking above Yongen-Jaya.
“Good night,” Akira murmurs, voice low.
The ensuing hush that falls over the room is peaceful.
Things are by no means perfect. They still have a tough fight ahead of them tomorrow, and weeks to go until the year reaches its end. Akechi won’t be around to witness it, but Akira will have to endure that remaining month alone, keeping their plan at the forefront of his mind.
It’s not guaranteed that Akechi and Akira’s efforts in the next loop will yield any results. It’s not even guaranteed that he’ll believe Akira’s insane story. But Akechi feels hopeful, as he listens to the steady rhythm of Akira's breathing, pulling the blanket closer around himself.
If anybody can change fate, it’s them. With their powers combined, the timeloop doesn't stand a chance.