Work Text:
Nijima Sae blurred in front of him. Her voice slurred through his ears, tone sharp and words hazy. Cotton crowded the inside of his skull, and his head floated just to the left of the rest of his body. Fire ants marched through his veins from whatever fucked up bullshit the cops flooded him with, crawling and biting and burning him from the inside out.
He needed to focus. Talking to her was important. He had to convince her that—
That what?
His head pulsed and he canted forward, trying to rub at his temple.
Clarity lanced from his wrist, abused nerves electric with sharp pain. With a low hiss, he glanced down. The skin of his wrists, raw and bruising dark, finally split beneath uncaring steel. A thin line of blood slipped into the fabric of his uniform, carrying away a few fire ants and cotton fibers with it.
Sae's words tuned in like a radio, and he answered her questions. Told the story. Did what he was supposed to.
Every time fire ants started swarming and cotton grew too thick, he pressed into the handcuffs' sharp edges until he bled, until ants and cottons drained.
He did what he was supposed to.
Sae's hand slammed on the table, the resounding bang echoing into a gunshot into a bulkhead door.
Akira struck his fist against unyielding steel, until his knuckles bled and past that still. Gunshots drowned his scream. No matter how he bled, how he let steel grind down into his bones, he couldn't get through.
He pressed his head against the bulkhead door, wishing Akechi could feel his touch through the barrier—something soft for a boy who was never allowed softness. He begged for Akechi to survive the only way Akechi would ever accept—a promise for a rematch, a promise that he wasn't going to forget him.
Blood seeped from beneath the metal, thick and rising and fit to drown him.
As blood filled his mouth, he wondered if perhaps he should let it.
Akira woke with the taste of iron on his tongue.
He woke perfectly still as he'd learned to—didn't gag on the imagined taste of Akechi's blood, didn't shake, didn't pant for breath his lungs screamed for. Soft breath puffed against his neck and he flinched, eyes snapping down to the top of a shiny blue-black head. Right. Morgana was human. Morgana was way too close.
Akira threw himself out of bed as quickly as he could without waking his no-longer-a-cat. With practiced ease, he stepped over squeaky floorboards to his box of belongings, changing clothes in a hurry. Morgana's little snores stabbed into his ears like a thousand needles—
Akira flinched at his mind's own imagery, urgency kicking up a gear. His chest was too tight, the walls were caving in, ghostly fire ants were beginning to burrow through his skin, and he needed to get out. His wrists ached, bone deep, and he didn't need to look to know what ugly scarring awaited him, even in this bubblegum reality.
Though, he supposed as he passed like a specter through the cafe and out the door, Maruki couldn't fix something he didn't know about.
The cold smack of January air did wonders for Akira's composure, and he sank against the brick for a moment, just breathing. The nightmare was hardly new, or uncommon. There was a whole draw pile his brain loved to pluck from lately, tossing down and combining traumatic events like a particularly creative card shark.
Last night, it was watching all his friends fade from existence as the sky rained blood and towering ribs ripped from the ground throughout the city, before he fell to nothing after them. Then, he fizzled back into being under a cop's boot, the syringe needle in his hand flashing beneath fluorescent lights.
Night before that, all his thieves and confidants ran ahead of him, their distant laughter and elated shouts muted through the glass box he couldn't break out of. No matter how he called, they never turned. "Guess you outlived your usefulness." Only Akechi remained, broken and bloodied and leaning against the outside of Akira's box, a mean smile on his face. "What miserable company we make on the island of forgotten toys."
Akira couldn't quite remember the last peaceful night he had.
He rubbed at his eyes, dislodging his glasses into an uncomfortable slant at the edge of his nose. The adrenaline was coming down, and his body grew heavy with the weight of too little sleep. Akira couldn't stand the thought of going back upstairs and trying to fall asleep next to a too-big Morgana. Instead, he turned towards the station—pretty sure the trains were still running—and planned on wandering around one of Tokyo's neighborhoods until he could bear the thought of going back to bed.
Before the new year, when he couldn't fall back asleep, he'd text Futaba. Her—to put it mildly—erratic sleep schedule meant she was often awake when he did, and they'd go back and forth about inane nonsense. He never said nightmares kept him awake, and Futaba never asked, but he thought she knew anyway. Akira would slip down into the cafe proper to brew some coffee (decaf, of course, lest Morgana pitch a fit) to settle his nerves and give his hands something to do. Sometimes Morgana would join him, yawning and stumbling over his paws, and they'd sit at the counter in the dimmed lights, a sleepy bubble of liminal time in the middle of the night, where he never felt lonely. He treasured their care, their companionship, their quiet acceptance.
Now though…
Now all his thieves were too busy with their gilded-perfect lives, hand-curated by Maruki's wish-granting, and Akira had no place in them.
Akira jumped on the first train he saw, remembering all the fruitless conversations he'd had with them over the week. Reaching out to them, trying to jog their true memories and incite their rebellion again, trying to get them to remember the reality where he mattered to them—
Ah. That was too much, even in the confines of his own head. It wasn't their fault. They only wished for a reality where the worst moments of their lives never happened: where loved ones never died or got hurt, where they were cherished by the people that always should have, where they could be who they wanted to be. In a world where those worst moments never happened, they never forged blood-oath bonds with Akira. And they were doing just fine for it.
It was Akira that needed those bonds like air; it was him that couldn't tread water once they were ripped away.
Didn't that make Akira the selfish one?
Who was he to drag them back into a reality of suffering and strife just because he felt lonely?
As he stepped off the platform and wandered up into the night air, blind to wherever his feet had walked him, a cutting voice that sounded a little too much like Akechi snapped through his head. His friends wouldn't want to live under a new god's thumb—they'd just gotten done killing the last one.
Akira knew his friends and their strength of heart. They wouldn't accept a sanitized reality where people were brainwashed into being happy. He had to trust them.
He could trust them.
(He had to believe that.)
He wandered through the late-night crowd, completely lost in his own head and eyes barely seeing the pavement under his feet. So he really shouldn't have been surprised when he nearly crashed right into someone's chest, a hand latching onto his shoulder and stopping him dead.
Akira looked up, apology half out his mouth, and startled to find Akechi in front of him. Just like every time since Christmas Eve, Akira lost his breath. The Akechi before him superimposed over the Akechi in his dreams, washing away the blood and broken bones.
Akechi was alive, right here.
Familiar shops glittered in his periphery, and Akira very suddenly realized his feet had carried him to Kichijoji of all places. Akechi frowned at him, and Akira stared back, probably looking like a deer in the headlights of a bitchy truck.
He should probably step back out of Akechi's space.
(He could feel the warm puff of Akechi's breath, faint over his face.)
Akechi's hand was still clamped down on his shoulder.
(He wanted to lean into it, closer.)
"What the hell's wrong with you?"
How much time you got? The kicking gears in Akira's brain offered. The thought was thankfully caught by Akira's brain-to-mouth filter.
Akira smoothed down his expression, swaying backwards. Akechi let go, and Akira's shoulder felt cold.
Akira waved a lazy hand through the air. "Got distracted for a moment, that's all. Sorry."
"Really?" The doubt in his voice was astronomical.
"Yep," Akira popped the 'p', just to watch the aggravated twitch of Akechi's eyebrow. "I'm supply shopping—Inventory restock for the palace tomorrow."
"Mm. What supplies are you procuring, exactly, at midnight?" Akechi asked, a critical strike to Akira's bold-faced lie.
Akira winced, rubbing at the back of his neck. Half-truths, then. "Alright, you caught me. My cat recently got way too big to share a bed with—" Red eyes flashed with vibrant rage, so quickly Akira wasn't sure if he just imagined it— "so, I'm evading turning in as long as I can." He finished with a little half-grin.
"That's not it," Akechi studied him, glare sharpened to razorblades. "Not all of it, anyway."
Akira fought the urge to fidget. He shoved his hands into his pockets, grin pasted to his face. Akechi continued to glare at him, stubborn and determined to solve the puzzle Akira had unwittingly put in front of him.
And Akira was tired. He didn't really have the energy to play cat-and-mouse with Akechi over something as unimportant as Akira's inability to sleep through the night. Admitting it would make Akechi draw back, shying away from the mere hint of weakness like a cat in water. Then Akira could get back to wandering around aimlessly.
"I'm… having trouble sleeping," Akira admitted lowly, kicking at a pebble beneath his shoe. "In general."
He glanced up as the silence hung a moment too long, ready for his dismissal, and saw an internal war taking place behind Akechi's eyes instead.
Finally, "Come with me." and Akechi turned on a heel and marched away.
Akira blinked, caught off guard. Akechi didn't turn to check Akira was doing as tasked, so sure that he would. Akira smiled fondly. Akechi's choice surprised him, but it was far from unwelcome.
He jogged to catch up, settling at Akechi's side. He didn't even think to ask where Akechi was leading him, just… content to be at his side again.
Despite everything that happened in the palace last week, part of Akira had been caught up in the thrill of tearing through the palace with Akechi next to him. Watching Crow rip through enemies, laughing in the chaos he wrought, finally free to unleash the anger boiling him alive, burned Akira in the best way possible. Heat under his fingers, pulsing in his chest, twisting low in his stomach—the fire urged him to join in, quick slashes and adaptable spells to match Crow's violent strikes and Loki's overwhelming, raw power.
(He probably shouldn't find Akechi, completely unhinged and more than a little bloodthirsty, as devastatingly attractive as he did—knew that there must be something wired wrong in his brain. But Akechi's voice growling praises and orders both, shivering right down his spine, the fluid motion of his muscles in that unfairly skintight outfit of his, the sheer competency he wielded like its own weapon as he decimated shadows—
Akira was already tumbling head-over-heels for Akechi before, dealing with him when he wasn't bothering to hide his true self now was just unfair.)
And their joint attack, their showtime, still left Akira breathless each time he thought about it. He hadn't felt a rush like that since awakening Arsene. Each strike was a dance they'd never practiced yet knew all the steps to, their souls howling like a storm in tandem, perfectly synced.
Akechi at his side, fighting with him instead of against him, was joy, was heat, was freedom.
God, he'd missed him.
They were entering an apartment building and, as his heart kicked hard enough to bruise his sternum, Akira realized he really should have asked where they were going. Akechi was stonily silent as he led the way up to the fifth floor. He stopped at an unassuming door, using three different keys to unlock three separate locks, and let Akira into his home.
Akira cleared his throat, automatically toeing off his shoes. "So," He floundered. There were exactly zero timelines he thought he'd see where the solitary, paranoid Akechi lived. Akechi busied himself clicking and turning the multiple locks on the door. "What'd you have in mind…?"
Akechi glanced at him. "You're unable to sleep at home."
"I mean, I can, it's just—"
"You can't sleep at home in any meaningful way because your shitty bed can barely handle you, let alone an idealized facade of Morgana," Akechi steamrolled on, removing his coat.
You didn't mind the shitty bed when you passed out on it for over six hours, Akira thought and wisely kept to himself. The memory of Akechi, curled up and surrounded by heart pillows, flashed in his mind's eye. It was a memory he coveted close to his chest, a smile coming unbidden to his lips.
"So, I'm paying in the favor I owe you. You can sleep here for the night. You'll be useless to me in the palace tomorrow if you're asleep on your feet."
His heart kicked again, and his sternum really wasn't going to survive too many of those.
Akira's lips parted, but no words made it out.
Akechi's expression flickered, anxiety in the subtle bend of his brow and twitch of his fingers. His voice pitched oddly in his uncertainty, wavering between princely and the disaffected tone he'd taken to since coming back. "Ah, perhaps that was a foolish idea. Here would be far more uncomfortable than Morgana, hm?"
Here, Akechi said, meaning next to him.
"No!" Akira protested, too loud. Akechi startled. Quieter, "That's not it. You just surprised me." He smiled, trying to dispel the tension. "I don't have anything packed for a sleepover."
"This is not a sleepover!" Akechi snapped. His ears and nose bloomed pink. "It's… tactical."
"Sure," Akira agreed easily.
Akechi eyed him suspiciously, before delving further into the apartment. Given no instruction to wait, Akira shucked off his coat and followed Akechi like a little duckling, looking around.
The apartment looked like it was pulled directly from a buyer's ad, clean and modernly furnished, but with little sign of personalization. There was a closed laptop on the coffee table, an empty mug beside it. Against a wall, a wooden bookshelf sagged beneath the weight of all its books. Akira itched to go over and comb through the titles.
Akechi disappeared into a room down the hall while Akira was distracted, reappearing before he could decide whether or not to follow. Akira caught the ball of clothes that came flying at him, thumbs sliding over the satin-smooth feel of them.
"Sleepwear. You can borrow them for the night—we should be around the same size," Akechi explained. "Bathroom's through there." He motioned towards the other door in the hall. "There's an unopened toothbrush beneath the sink."
"Oh, thanks," Akira blinked, coming to terms with what was actually happening. Holy shit, he was about to wear Akechi's clothes and sleep in his bed.
Pay in the favor, Akechi had said. Was he planning to watch over Akira while he slept? Would he touch his hair like Akira had for him? His pulse roared in his ears at the thought, even knowing how slim a chance that was.
"Well?" Akechi actually tapped his foot against the ground. "Get prepared for bed."
Akira slipped into the bathroom before Akechi could get irritated enough to bodily toss him in.
He found the promised toothbrush, going through the motions of readying for bed. Akechi's clothes did fit him, if a little long in the sleeves. A good thing—he didn't think Akechi would react particularly well if he saw the jagged, dark scars around his wrists. Akechi was smart enough to clock exactly what they were the moment he saw them. They hadn't talked about it, but Akira knew him well enough that whatever feelings Akechi had on… everything that had happened were convoluted at best, and festering at worst.
Neither of them needed to get into that tonight.
He stepped out of the bathroom. Akechi leaned against the opposite wall, ankles crossed as he fiddled with his phone. He'd already changed into his own pajamas, satiny and barely exposing the dip of his collarbone. He looked soft and unarmored, just like he did when he'd knocked his forehead against Akira's hip and allowed Akira to soothe him back to sleep.
Akechi's eyes flicked up. His hand spasmed, nearly fumbling his phone, before clenching bone-white around the device. His gaze dragged up and down Akira, taking him in, the weight of his attention heavy and heady. Akira silently thanked his lucky genetics that he didn't blush easily. He still felt warm under the collar, absently tugging at his sleeves.
The two of them stood there, the moment stretching between seconds.
The tension snapped when Akechi forced his eyes away, dodging past Akira into the bathroom and slamming the door.
Akira's breath left him in a wheeze.
He shakily made his way back out into the living room, spotting the pillow and folded blanket sitting on the couch. Even as he logically knew that Akechi loaning him the couch made way more sense than allowing him into his bedroom, his heart still panged with disappointment.
Akechi walked out just as Akira was unfolding the blanket to drape across the couch. He immediately scowled. "What are you doing? You're sleeping in the bedroom."
Akira stalled. "What—? I'm not kicking you out of your own bed."
"You're already having difficulty sleeping," Akechi marched over and had the audacity to rip the blanket right out of Akira's hands. "Resting on a couch isn't going to improve that. You're sleeping in the bed."
"You don't sleep well, either," Akira rebutted. "You need the bed as much as I do."
Akechi looked like he was about to argue the first point until he was blue in the face.
Akira continued before he could, "People with healthy sleep schedules don't melt into tired ooze over Leblanc's counter or pass out all afternoon and evening."
"That was an isolated incident," Akechi lied.
"We both know it wasn't."
Akechi glared. Akira met it evenly.
"Come on," Akira snatched the blanket back while Akechi was still busy coming up with his next argument. "We've shared a bed before. We can just do it again." He started down the hallway, glancing over his shoulder to sing, "Better follow me so I don't root around in all your drawers until I find the Featherman pajamas I know you have!"
A moment later, Akechi stormed past him, ears a brilliant red and ready to combust, growling all sorts of unpleasant obscenities under his breath.
Akira laughed, the world a little lighter on his shoulders. He loved this new, unfettered Akechi—all sharp edges and biting scowls, free of the plastic prince.
The bedroom was much the same as the rest of the apartment, modern and grey and lit by a single warm lamp, signs someone actually lived here few and far between. Primarily, there was a single Featherman poster on the wall.
Akechi, going from window to window ensuring they were locked, shot him a look. "Not a word. Just get in the damn bed."
Akira, very wise, kept his mouth shut and got in the damn bed.
The bed was extremely comfortable. Akira sighed as he stretched out beneath the comforter, the mattress hugging along his back. His body all at once reminded him how tired he was, sinking into the softness beneath him. Sitting up felt impossible. It really did put his milk-crate cot to shame. The bed dipped as Akechi perched on the edge, not even getting under the covers.
Akira blinked his eyes open to watch him. Akechi was tense from jaw to foot, looking moments from bolting. He was absolutely going to retreat to the couch the moment he thought Akira was asleep.
Akira's internal plotting to ensure Akechi did not do that was interrupted when Akechi reached over and plucked the glasses right off Akira's face. Akechi didn't need to say anything for his disdain to be obvious, folding the glasses and somewhat gently setting them down on the bedside table.
"Thanks," Akira whispered.
Without the glass barrier, he was exposed and his gaze bound to be too much in its intensity. If anyone else had tried to remove them without asking, Akira knew he would've fought it. Akechi, though… Akira didn't mind. Both of them were devoid of masks now, bare in the low light.
Akechi's eyes narrowed. "You're here to sleep. Not gawk at me."
Caught, Akira shrugged one shoulder. "Not ready to sleep yet." His body profoundly disagreed with that, but his mind was still too wired to sleep. He wanted to continue basking in Akechi's attention. "Maybe you could read me a bedtime story?"
Deadpan and unbelievably flat, Akechi said, "No."
Akira snorted, rolling onto his side to continue his study of Akechi's profile.
Akechi's eyes rolled to the ceiling in a silent cry for help. His gaze cut back down to him, and there it was again—that uncertainty.
"…If you're uncomfortable sleeping with me here—"
"I'm not."
Frustration built up in the clench of his jaw. "Zero self-preservation instincts. I shouldn't be surprised."
Akira studied him for a long moment, to Akechi's growing agitation.
"I feel safe with you, too, you know."
Akechi's breath hitched. Too many emotions raced across his face before he forced his expression neutral. "How?" The word didn't crack, but it did teeter.
Akira didn't have a good answer for that. It was just the truth.
When he looked at Akechi, he didn't see the enemy. Not when he was just the suspicious detective investigating them, not in November, and not when Akechi shattered to pieces and tried to take them all down with him.
He was dangerous, certainly, but that had never put Akira off. (Drew him further in, more like.)
Akechi was the boy who challenged him to be better, who wanted nothing from Akira but his honesty. Akechi was the boy who fascinated him at every turn—Akira addicted to seeing through the cracks in his masks and peeling away his armor. Every facet of the true Akechi he managed to uncover just made him fall harder.
Expectation changed its meaning around Akechi—became something achievable: all he had to do was be the best of himself. Akira's own mask constantly slipped, his careful consideration of words tossed out for something true and a little snarky. And Akechi's eyes lit up every time.
Even when Akechi's gun was hanging over his head, Akira always wanted to seek out Akechi and the, admittedly strange, sense of safety he offered. Whether they were debating any number of topics they found to argue over or just sitting quietly together over coffee and books, Akira was always at ease. The rest of the world fell away, so eager were they to live within each other's attention.
So, yeah, it hurt when Akechi betrayed them. But Akira forgave him for that in the middle of Loki's spells suffocating the engine room, Akechi screaming and jagged below him. Just desperate to reach the thread tying them together before it could snap.
Akechi was never the enemy in Akira's eyes, only someone he wanted at his side, at his back. His rival, his friend, his—
Slow, wary of spooking him like a wild animal, he scooted closer. When Akechi didn't fly off the bed, Akira carefully, tentatively, rested his head on Akechi's thigh. The muscle was tense as a board beneath him, but that was alright. He allowed his eyes to drop shut.
"I mean, look at us now," Akira said. "You've let me into your home, determined to make me get a good night's sleep in your bed. Hard to think you have bad intentions."
"Perhaps it's all a ruse to end you while you're vulnerable."
"Maybe. But you would've already grabbed the gun under your pillow for that."
Akechi sighed. "You're unbelievable."
"Always aiming to impress."
Akira very carefully did not startle at warm fingers brushing through his bangs. The touch grew more confident in Akira's silence, blunt nails running over his scalp and leaving golden sparks in their wake.
Akira's breath shuddered out of him, melting into Akechi and his bed. Akechi relaxed beneath him.
"You should be aiming to sleep," Akechi admonished, something soft and fragile caught in his voice.
Akira's eyes opened, drawn upwards.
Akechi frowned at him for being contrary, but that soft and fragile something was still there, warming cold garnet gems to shimmering stars.
His heart started kicking at his sternum again, all the strength of a bunny-kicking tiger beating at the bone. He rolled onto his back, head still pillowed on Akechi's thigh, warm fingers still woven into his hair. Caught in the soft affection bleeding from Akechi's gaze, swept in the tide of his own feelings, his lips parted. "Can I—" Too much. He snapped his teeth shut on the words, swallowing them back down.
"What?" Akechi asked. His touch trailed along the side of Akira's head, brushing the sensitive skin behind his ear.
Akira's lashes fluttered, leaning into the touch. "It's nothing." He smiled. "This is nice."
Less nice when Akechi tugged on a curl. His frown was growing. "What were you going to ask? Maybe you'll go to fucking sleep after."
Akira laughed, breathy and soft. "Akechi, seriously, don't worry about it. Full effort into sleeping, right now."
Akechi's eyes flashed, and plans to really try sleeping went right out the window.
Akira yelped as his (very comfortable) pillow ripped away. Hands shoved him back in the middle of the bed. Before he could reorient himself, one pressed to his chest and pushed him down into the plush mattress.
Akechi glared down at him with all the fires of hell. "Stop hiding and tell me what you want."
"I'm not—hiding," Akira bit. Too much.
"You are. You think I haven't noticed?"
His blood rushed in his ears. Fuck, he was too obvious, and now Akechi was going to kick him out or leave—
"You never say what you want. Hiding behind all your friends' desires. Anything to make them happy, right? You are not going to pull that shit with me. What were you going to say?"
Akira's gaze slanted to the side, away from the burning sun of Akechi's. "It's too much. I can't—"
"Ask."
Akira clenched his jaw. This had been going so well, and he just had to open his big mouth, and now Akechi—beautiful and stubborn and obstinate—wasn't going to let it go. Apparently he'd learned to read Akira far better than he thought, and Akira knew he couldn't weasel his way out.
Fine. Fine. Might as well pull the pin and watch it all blow up in his face. Everything else has.
Akira snapped his eyes back to Akechi, frustration making him brave, exhaustion making him stupid. "'Can I kiss you?'"
Too much. Way too much.
Regret immediately bubbled in his throat as Akechi's face went slack. Really, he should know to keep his mouth shut by now. He closed his eyes and turned his head away, waiting for the detonation.
The hand on his chest withdrew, and Akira heard the pitiful creak of his heart cracking.
Fingers gripped his chin, gentle but firm, tilting his head back around.
"Akira, look at me."
He really didn't want to, so sure he was about to take shrapnel to the face, but what else was there to do? He hesitantly did as bid. Akechi still hovered over him, his eyes warm and fragile and full of stars.
Akira laid there, stunned and staring.
"I don't understand you at all," Akechi said, quiet even in the room's silence. "You truly want this?"
This, he said, and meant me.
"It's only ever been you."
Akechi bit his lip, closing his eyes. Akira saw the shards there, before he did. Joy and pride. Pain and disbelief.
"It's a bad idea."
Akira swallowed. "I told you to just forget it."
"You're a bad idea," Akechi murmured, eyes opening half-mast and locking on his lips.
"Shouldn't that be my line?" Akira asked, faint, as Akechi swayed closer. Akechi's hair fell around their faces, shrouding them from the outside world. All Akira needed to do was tilt his head…
"Yes." He could feel the ghost of Akechi's breath against his lips. "Promise me one thing."
"Yeah?" Akira would promise Akechi just about anything, but he did not need to know that.
"No matter what Maruki does to try and convince you to accept this false reality, you won't falter. You'll continue fighting to go back." Akechi watched him, a truth Akira couldn't parse buried in the depths of his expression. It made unease curl in his gut. "Promise me that."
"…I promise."
His mouth tilted in a smirk that really wasn't good for Akira's health, dark truth vanishing in its wake. "Then, if you don't believe you'll regret it by the end of all this, my answer's yes."
"Really?"
"I won't say it twice." Red bloomed over the bridge of Akechi's nose, casting subtle freckles in sharp relief.
Akira, still reeling, wondered what would happen if he tried kissing each one. He thought Akechi might let him, though he'd complain all the while. He wondered if anyone else even knew they were there. He hoped they didn't.
Akira cradled Akechi's face in his hands and tilted his head.
Akechi's lips were soft, their warmth chased by the cool bite of mint. He was helplessly endeared by the thought of Akechi's nighttime routine including mint chapstick. Each brush of their lips sparked gold through Akira's veins. He was distinctly aware Akechi was allowing him to lead, taking his time to savor each press and slide of Akechi's mouth against his. Akira channeled everything he couldn't say into the kiss, hoping Akechi understood just how much Akira wanted him, how much this meant.
Akechi made a little noise, not quite a whine, letting himself drop until their chests pressed flush together, and Akira thought he did.
Akira sliding his fingers up into silken honey-brown hair was the last of Akechi's patience, and Akira rapidly lost control of the kiss. Akechi used his grip on Akira's chin to tilt his head into a position that suited him and set about working his mouth open. Akira moaned at the first sting of teeth. He might've been embarrassed for it if Akechi hadn't answered in kind. Akechi bit at his bottom lip, canine scraping over the swell of his flesh, until Akira finally gasped into it. He clung for dear life as Akechi's tongue slid into his mouth and took its sweet time exploring, tracing over his teeth and rolling over his palette. Akira chased it home, taking the chance to explore Akechi's mouth in turn, purring when Akechi's hand wrapped firm around the back of his neck.
His veins were all gold, and Akira never wanted to stop.
His lungs disagreed. Akira pulled back for a quick breath and it, miserably, cracked into a full yawn. He quickly tilted his head to the side and covered his mouth.
Akechi was laughing at him. "Certainly you can sleep now, after your good night's kiss," He teased. Humor looked good on him, glittering in his eyes and curving glossy, kiss-red lips.
Akira laughed too, warm all over. "Fine."
He grappled at Akechi, hands wrapping around his arms and leg slinging over his waist to wrestle him down into the sheets next to him. Akechi put up a token protest, hissing complaints and batting at him, but didn't really try to stop Akira from tossing the blanket over them both and curling into Akechi's side. He nuzzled in while Akechi was still grumbling, head cradled in the nook of Akechi's shoulder, arm tossed over his chest, legs tangled together. No way Akechi was sneaking off to the couch now.
Akechi's fingers found the back of Akira's neck, drifting up and down his spine. Akira hummed, lashes fluttering closed, already falling to the rhythm of golden sparks and the heat of Akechi against him.
"Finally," Akechi whispered into his hair. "You're worse than a fussing toddler."
Akira fell asleep before he could come up with a witty reply.
Sunlight slanted across his face, hazy orange through his eyelids. Akira woke wholly disoriented. His body didn't know how to wake up without the rush of adrenaline, left heavy and lax after a dreamless sleep. Akira hummed sleepily, stretching without moving, and snuggled back into his pillow. A pillow that rose and fell under him, and smelled really good. Akira shoved his face closer to indulgently sniff. He only noticed the hand around his wrist when it tightened, warm and grounding.
"Are you—" A baffled voice rose from above him, vibrating through his skull. "Stop sniffing me—What the hell, Akira?"
Whoops.
Akira pried his eyes open and raised his head enough to see Akechi's flustered face. He immediately chose to double-down. "You smell good."
There was the violent blush across Akechi's nose. Akira smiled, pleased with himself.
"You—" Akechi groaned, shoving Akira to the side. He still had Akira's wrist caught in a grip that Akira wasn't sure he could break out of, even if he wanted to.
Akira glanced down, found his sleeve still went down to his knuckles—Akechi's hand over fabric. He looked back up to Akechi, suspicion rising.
Akechi's expression didn't betray anything, no shards in the red of his gaze for Akira to decipher. There were, however, shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there the night before. Akira wondered if Akechi had slept at all.
Akechi didn't give him a chance to pester for answers. He pried his hand off Akira's wrist like it physically pained him to do so, rolling out of bed and chasing Akira out soon after.
Akechi hurried them out of the apartment, snippy and waspish anytime Akira was too slow getting ready or tried to idly chatter. Akira saw the insecurity beneath the biting words and distance. Akechi was always an expert at turning fear to anger.
"We shouldn't loiter. I would rather have as much of the day as possible to confront Maruki and deal with whatever he has in store."
"All the more reason to have breakfast," Akira wheedled, shrugging on his coat.
"We can find something on the way," Akechi relented, slinging a scarf over his shoulders.
Akira took his chance. He stepped forward, pulling the ends from Akechi's hands to tie them himself. Akechi stilled, brow creasing. He allowed Akira close.
Akira finished the knot, smoothing the fabric down. He met Akechi's gaze, driving as much honesty as he could through Akechi's armor and into the uncertainty beneath. "I don't regret it," Akira promised.
And then he smacked a kiss right on the tip of Akechi's nose. He unlocked and skedaddled out the door while Akechi was still sputtering.
They reached the palace, and Akira swallowed the knot in his throat when no one stood waiting for them. Stones settled in the pit of his stomach. He really thought…
He felt Akechi watching him and didn't look over.
"Just us two, then," Akechi said, unbothered. "Let's go."
They tore through the shadows in their way. Akira allowed himself to get lost in the tide of battle, the push-and-pull of sneaking through the palace and ripping masks clean off. As he cut a shadow through, he had a new appreciation for how cathartic ripping them apart was. He understood why Akechi enjoyed it so much.
They found Maruki. Negotiations broke down immediately. Akira was forced to raise his blade against Sumire.
Things went horrifically sideways.
His thieves arrived fashionably late and just in time to save them from the rampaging Cendrillon. Akira's heart soared in the rush of all their bonds snapping back into place. A fierce smile slashed across his face as they stood at his side. They rescued Sumire and made it out of the palace with a new deadline over their heads.
Akechi didn't invite him over again.
(Though Akira wasn't a thief for nothing and stole a few more kisses both in and out of the palace, tucked away in quiet corners or in the shadows of Jazz Jin. Crow's helmet was a bitch to remove, but Akira was nothing if not motivated.)
His friends, his thieves, apologized for losing themselves in Maruki's reality. Of course Akira forgave them. He was just happy to have them back. That's all that mattered.
He wondered if their easy acceptance of how Akira kept gravitating to Akechi was one way of making it up to him. He decided not to ask.
The nightmares persisted, blessedly not every night. When his eyes snapped open, hands shaky with leftover adrenaline, Akira was never brave enough to text Akechi. His thumb would hover over Akechi's contact, fear of being too much and watching Akechi pull away stopping him each time.
Akechi had already let Akira closer than he ever dared hope, and he couldn't bear the thought of ruining it by dumping all his childish fears into Akechi's lap. No, he would smother them himself, distracting his brain with coffee-making and reading through Futaba's walls of text about Featherman lore.
It worked. It was enough.
And when Akechi's truth finally came to light in February, the night before their deadline, Akira wished he could hate Akechi a little more. Then maybe he could have kept him.
But he couldn't. He looked at Akechi, stubborn and fierce and beautiful, and Akira kept his promise.
Akechi's shoulders dipped in relief hearing Akira's conviction, an honest cant to his lips. "Good. Let's go back to our true reality."
Before he could turn away, before he could leave, Akira choked out, "Can I—" He stopped, catching sight of the shards in Akechi's eyes.
Akechi was facing his death tomorrow, and here he was acting the unwavering soldier just so Akira didn't crack and falter. God, Akira was pathetic.
Akechi's expression softened, and he stepped into Akira's space.
The kiss ached, each caress of their lips a goodbye. Akira committed to memory the press of Akechi's mouth against his, the taste of him, the constellations drawn in pale freckles. Akira's mind grasped for any hope Akechi was going to survive this and was left sorely wanting. He'd disappear; fanning lashes and shimmering-star eyes and cutting smiles lost forever. Akechi guided the kiss into something gentle, gloved thumbs brushing away the scant tears Akira failed to hold back.
Akechi shifted to press a kiss into Akira's hair. There, he said, "Forgive me. I know what I'm asking of you."
The words burned.
Akira dragged Akechi into another kiss, so he didn't have to answer. If Akira was too much teeth, Akechi took it in stride. They kissed until they bruised.
Akechi pulled away.
Akira let Akechi go.
The next day didn't wait for his tears or nightmares to end, and they charged the palace one last time.
They took down another god—dragged Maruki back down into the realm of mortals no matter how hard he fought and screamed. Akira didn't allow him to fall further—so, so tired as he clung to the man's wrist on a broken, glowing bridge.
When the bubble popped on Maruki's shimmering reality, he woke up alone.