#I will never get bored of exploring how messed up 3rd semester is for him

[weloveakechi]

Chapters: 3/? Fandom: Persona 5 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Akechi Goro & Yoshizawa Sumire | Yoshizawa Kasumi, Akechi Goro & Kurusu Akira Characters: Akechi Goro, Yoshizawa Sumire | Yoshizawa Kasumi, Persona 5 Protagonist Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Trauma, Third Semester (Persona 5), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, questionable medical practices, Akechi Goro Needs a Hug, Akechi Goro Lives, Akechi Goro is Bad at Feelings, Putting Akechi through the horrors for fun and profit, POV Yoshizawa Kasumi | Yoshizawa Sumire, POV Akechi Goro, Royal Trio - Freeform, chalk one up to my SumiGoro besties agenda, Two Goro Akechis means two times the angst

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“What about this one? I think we’re on the same team, just competing for the best score.” Akira asks, stopping them at a cabinet that looks an awful lot like Gun About, only with foot pedals at each station and the words Chronos Catastrophe 3 written in comically large text on the top.

Akechi stares it down, or perhaps through it as colors flash across the screen, a voice rattling off objectives and goals. He doesn’t know why he’s agreed to this–this–whatever this is.

There are a hundred other things to be doing that would be more beneficial to their mission, like going right back into Maruki’s palace to find the rest of the answers to his puzzles so they can complete the damn thing. Or visiting Mementos to help the team grow just that much stronger. They’ll need any and all advantages if they want to make sure they can beat Maruki when the time comes.

The last thing he needs is to be playing more games.

Especially with Akira.

“Sure.” He shrugs.

His friend’s eyes light up, “Great! I’ll take blue, you can be red.” He’s already got the laser gun in his hands.

While Akechi takes his, weighing it, Akira leans down to fiddle with the arcade cabinet, swiping his game card to load up a series of credits for both of them. He hums under his breath as he does so, all energy and bounce.

Akechi hates it.

He hates the joy he’d seen on Akira’s face on Christmas eve. Hates how he’d allowed Akechi to brush off the truth of his ‘resurrection’. How he hovers close, pulls Akechi into conversations, and always puts him on the team in the metaverse. The constant invites for drinks, fishing, batting, walks in the park.

Like he’s trying to soak up every moment of time he can together, and make up for that empty section where he’d been dead. Pull him in tight without ever actually touching him and weave him into the group, into Akira’s life, and very being.

Most of all. Akechi hates how he can’t say no.

The words hover in the back of his throat with every invitation and moment of community. They are a frog, burrowed just behind his tongue ready to leap but unable to all the same. A lump of poison he wants to spit but swallows instead. Better to let it burn away at his insides than corrode Akira’s.

“Alright, time to make good use of those gun skills.” Akira says, as the screen flashes and the opening scene begins to play out for them.

Dialogue scrolls the bottom of the screen to fill in the blanks where the arcade’s blaring noise covers up the game’s text, telling the story of two crime fighting partners and their quest to stop the advance of zombies through some city Akechi’s not even sure actually exists.

Akechi lifts his own gun and fires off a few practice shots as the scene plays, getting a feel for where the laser lands in relation to his aim. Next to him, Akira dances on the balls of his feet, before frowning and stilling, one foot going to the pedal. Akechi matches his stance, gun at the ready.

Three zombies burst from a door to the right of the detectives as they creep down a hall. Three quick shots from Akechi’s gun have their heads bursting, bodies falling to the ground. Another five show up as the game leads them through a rough tutorial of what to shoot, who to avoid, reloading, and most interestingly of all using the the foot pedal to duck.

They both get the hang of it rather quickly as they blast their way through the first level. Only losing a handful of lives between them. Not enough to drop either of their characters out, but enough to prove to Akechi this game wasn’t designed with the player’s enjoyment fully in mind, but instead as a cash grab.

“Nice work.” Akira rolls his shoulders back as the game loads up the second level, eyes glittering, “But now that I’ve got this figured out I’m totally going to smoke you.”

Akechi’s lips twitch into a smirk, “I’d like to see you try. I seem to remember being a better shot than you in general.”

Akira’s eyes go to the screen, gun held aloft towards it even as the detectives go on about just what could be behind this whole mystery, “In Mementos sure, but I’ve been practicing on these shooters. My Gun About score is ridiculous.” He shoots Akechi a quick wink, “I had lots of time to practice while I was playing dead.”

How he can just talk about that so casually is beyond Akechi. But he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised at this point. Akira hasn’t seemed to care a bit that he’s not the same Akechi that spent most of the last year with him, princely facade dropped in favor of letting his exhaustion and disdain at Maruki’s world shine through.

If he’s in control of any aspect of his own autonomy during this sham of an existence he’s living, it is that. His own simmering hatred for the ‘good doctor’s’ laughable excuse for a reality. He will hold onto that with everything he has, no matter what is thrown at him, or what strings he can’t cut get pulled.

“Looks like there’s more civilians this time. Wanna see how many we can actually save?” Akira asks, eyes darting across the screen as they shoot.

Akechi huffs, “Absolutely not.” He says, even as he shoots a zombie that’s going after a screaming woman.

The boy beside him laughs. Akira seems happier to see Akechi how he is now. He hasn’t voiced it, but he’s never even looked at him like he’s the least bit upset to see the last of Akechi’s simpering side.

Half the level passes by before the first one of them goes down. Akira’s lightning fast with his hand as he smacks the button to continue, eating up one of the credits he’d pre-loaded. Akechi’s character takes the fall next. He doesn’t even have time to find the button before Akira’s hit it for him, simultaneously shooting some kind of water snake that’s lunging at him over the side of the bridge they’d been crossing.

It goes on like that as they pick their way through the levels. The waves of enemies get tougher and tougher, gnawing away at their lives at a rate no number of healing items or extra hearts can quite get over. Especially since it’s both their first time’s playing the game.

Through it all, Akira keeps an eye on both of them, dragging each character back from the brink of game ending demise with a swift smack to the ‘continue’ button on either side of the cabinet whenever one’s lives fully deplete. He even takes a moment five levels in to swish his card again, reloading the credits.

Not once does he ever suggest that they quit the game, even as it grows steadily more hostile towards its players, eating away at their credits like Pac Man and his pellets.

No, he laughs and teases through it. His fun is infectious, pulling at Akechi’s own reluctance to be standing beside him. They’re both so engrossed in their quest to save the world that he manages, for a little while at least, to push back the constant murmur in the back of his head that his selfishness is only going to hurt Akira in the end.

When at last the credits roll, and the game is congratulating them for making it all the way to the end, Akira steps back, triumphant grin on his face, “Ha! Just barely beat your score. I told you.”

Akechi rolls his eyes, “I am not sure beating me by two hundred points is much to cheer over. That is what, a single zombie difference?”

“A win’s a win.” Akira stops and pulls his phone out of his pocket, the device buzzing in his palm. He frowns down at it, fingers tapping out a response, “Oh, Sumire needs to see me about something, it seems important.”

His look is apologetic when he returns his eyes to Akechi, “Guess we’ll have to wrap up here for the day.”

To say it’s a welcome relief would be a lie. Akechi’s allowed himself to fall into a level of comfort during this morning gaming session he’s been trying to avoid, and there is a large part of him that doesn’t want to see it end. He’d fully expected Akira to suggest another game, or lunch next.

He bites back the sharp disappointment, reminding himself that every second spent in the other’s company is one more for Akira to regret once they’ve defeated Maruki. Akira can try to build up a hundred pleasant memories here and now, and attempt all he wants to drag Akechi into a deeper relationship but it’s all for nothing. He’s not sure if Akira’s willfully lying to himself or truely hasn’t realized the truth yet. No matter what the answer is, Akechi shouldn’t do him the disservice of making things harder when he has to face reality.

At least, that is what he keeps telling himself. Advice he fully chooses to ignore. Perhaps he is the one willfully lying to himself, and not Akira.

“But hey! Next time, we should play the Fatherman R game I picked up. I think we’re ready.” Akira says, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

Akechi lets his gun drop back into the plastic bin it lives in when not in use and levels a disappointed look at him, “If you’d admitted to owning that first I would have insisted on playing it, not this silly drivel.”

“You have to admit, it was fun drivel. There’s something so satisfying about slaying hoards of zombies.” He says.

“Hmm.” Akechi only hums.

“A bit like taking out low level shadows in Mementos.” Akira adds, “Maybe that’s what we should do next. See who can clear a floor fastest.”

Akechi crosses his arms, “That, at least would be a better way to spend time.” He gives Akira a sharp grin, “Maybe then you could pick up a useful Persona.”

His friend gives him a mock shocked look, all wide eyes and mouth open in an overemphasized ‘O’, “This is Uriel slander, and I won’t have it.”

“It’s Jack Frost I’m talking about, however it’s telling you jumped straight to your current favorite.”

Akira crosses his arms with a dramatic huff, “You’re just jealous of his Hama skills.”

“Skills I could easily have Robin Hood use.” Akechi points out.

Grey eyes glitter at him, “Speaking of, poor Robin Hood hasn’t seen the light of day all month.”

Akechi gives him a saccharine smile, “I thought you liked ‘just regular old Akechi’?” He leans over, putting every ounce of his old television charm into his face, voice, and body language, “Missing the Detective Prince, are we? I’d be happy to smooth down all those ‘vicious sort of person’ edges again if you just ask nicely.”

The other boy shudders, and pokes him in the cheek leaving his finger there until it shatters Akechi’s hastily pasted on mask, replacing it with a scowl.

Akira’s face softens as he lets his hand drop, “Nah, I like the real you much better.”

Akechi draws in on himself, the words a dart to something sensitive and sharp in his lungs. He knows his face has gone blank, he can’t help it. Can’t draw on a suitable mask quick enough to prove to Akira that that slice of acceptance hadn’t grabbed his insides and twisted.

It’s not his fault. He’s not the one who took godlike powers and dragged corpses back from the grave, giving them just enough knowledge to understand how wrong it was.

“Let’s head out.” He spins on his heel, and starts for the door.

Fabric rustles and shoes clamber as Akira scurries to keep up with him, dropping in next to his shoulder so close Akechi can feel his warmth even in the stifled, stuffed, arcade.

“Hold on!” A hand loops through his arm and tugs him, and then they’re standing in front of a crane game, stuffed full of boxes and dolls.

“You have somewhere else to be, or have you already forgotten?” Akechi snaps, even as Akria’s already leaning down, yen clattering into the chamber and reviving the machine with a burst of song.

“It’ll be a minute, tops.” Akira’s not even looking at him, focused on the game, and shifting the arm to swing out over the sea of worthless prizes.

Akechi’s not even surprised to see him go for the Jack Frost doll. He stopped being surprised by figures and toys that share shadows’ appearances long ago. One way or another, cognition’s all to blame.

Akira works the machine like a pro, so swift and confident in his movements it's a surprise when the claw comes up empty. He huffs and slips in another two coins. To Akechi’s eyes he does the same thing, but something must have been different, either in Akira’s adjustments or the crane’s programming to actually grab with force this time, but a little doll swings up, then slides it’s way over until it drops into the prize bin.

“Yes.” Grey eyes are alight with joy the same moment he shoves the doll into Akechi’s arms, “There, now you have one more persona too. And a useful one at that.”

Akechi’s apartment feels even more empty these days than it ever has before. Devoid of casework, covert assassination paperwork, or even the homework that used to be scattered across his counter or coffee table the place is clean.

He lets the door close behind him as he enters, eyeing the space around him. It is a blank slate, much like Akechi himself. An echoing lonely space that only comes alive when someone else enters it. Not that he’s had anyone but Akira over, and that he can count on a single hand. Two fingers in fact.

The first had been because Akira had insisted on it. Wanting to see some proof of Akechi’s return in a way that wasn’t simply himself standing there.

“I want to know you’re–here all the time. Not just a figment of my imagination.” Akira had been so raw, so open, with those words Akechi had been forced to say yes.

The second was because they’d stayed far too late at Jazz Jinn after a particularly grueling trip into Mementos. Akira had been drooping half the night, and Akechi hadn’t quite been able to trust him with going home on his own. So he’d tossed the boy onto his couch and left him to sleep off the stress of leadership on a couch who’s cushions could be considered brand new.

When it is just Akechi it is—uncomfortable.

He tries not to spend too much time there. There’s nothing for him between those walls, nothing but the proof of a life lived in the relentless pursuit of one single thing, with everything else thrown by the wayside.

Now that it’s clean (he’s had little else to keep him occupied) it’s emptiness is worse. There is nothing to differentiate it from a space someone is renting out to strangers, furniture clipped from a catalog. He winces at how sterile it feels. Not a pop of real color anywhere.

Well. Not a pop beyond the silly little Jack Frost doll Akira had forced on him before they’d left the arcade. Akechi’s still got it in one hand, minky fabric silky soft against the leather of his gloves.

He stands there, just inside the door of his apartment and contemplates where it should go. At last, he settles on sitting it on the couch. Tucked next to one of the arms, little happy face staring at him as he steps away. Arms outstretched as if to say ‘thanks for taking me home!’.

The urge to grab it and shove it in the trash is strong.

Instead he turns away, flinging the door open again and strides out.

He wanders, as he has become prone to doing through January. No one flocks to take photos with him, or squeals as he passes by. His blog has long gone dormant, without a hint of activity on either side. It’s like his fame was a flame atop a candle, bright and flickering then snuffed in an instant. Of all the changes he’s experienced in Maruki’s reality, this is at least something he enjoys.

No one follows him either. He’d felt a pang of anxiety early on that shadows would haunt his steps, Shido’s men waiting to find him and silence a voice that could damn them all, but none ever appeared. Another side effect of Maruki’s reality, he assumes.

There are no records of the deeds he clearly remembers doing. No statement of losses after a tragic train wreck in the subway. The once heavily censored obituary for Kunikazu Okumura instead now reads of a tragic sudden loss of life that holds no imprint of Akechi’s fingerprints. Everything polished down to the most sanitary version of itself. Neat and tidy so he can go about living his life happily by Akira’s side. Free and clear of all but the demons that live within his mind.

He chips away at the day, browsing a bookstore, fingers brushing along spines of books he doesn’t care to read, and plucking one up seemingly at random. He’s pretty sure he’s seen this tucked under Akira’s arm before.

The book and Akechi end up at the park. Sun warming his nose and cheeks, doing its best to fight off the crisp air as he steadfastly refuses to find somewhere warm to go. The chill in his fingers creeps in until they’re so stiff he has trouble turning the pages. Only then does he get up to continue his wandering.

He finds his way to a cafe for coffee and a very late lunch. The coffee is a little too sweet and not quite strong enough, but warms his icy digits all the same. He keeps checking his phone between bites of food, finger tapping at the messages, disappointment flaring when nothing new from Akira comes.

It’s not like he should be messaging Akechi. He said he needed to meet Sumire after all. But if he needs something, if it is an emergency in the Metaverse, Akechi knows he’ll be the first Akira reaches out to. He’s predictable like that. Still, he leaves the cafe with no new notifications to distract him.

Akechi’s feet, as always, ultimately take him to stand outside Penguin Sniper. No matter where he goes, or how he wanders, it is inevitable that he finds himself rooted in the same place he’d lingered off and on for months, a designated location to ‘accidentally’ run into Akira.

 “Oh what a surprise Kurusu-kun! Why don’t we step inside for a game?”

(He had memorized the boy’s general schedule, and movements so nothing would ever be a surprise.)

 “I happen to be free for the evening, I’d be happy to try a new game with you.”

(Such casual words could only be said after hours combing mementos for Shido’s targets, and skipped meals in favor of interviews, and fingers rubbed raw from piles of paperwork.)

 “Why don’t we go to the Jazz Club? I think there is a singer tonight.”

(Muhen had sighed with resignation, but handed over a schedule, mouth quirked in a fond half smile after Akechi had pestered him for the next six months music and drink selection plans.)

He’s standing there, staring down at a phone whose screen is blank, waiting on it to flicker to life when it hits him. Somehow his life has started to revolve around one person. One person who won’t be texting him again today, because of other plans. One person who crashed into his world and set it on fire. One person who wished so hard he was quite literally dragged back from death itself to orbit around him, the moon to his sun.

But it’s always been like that, hasn’t it? He always orbits, never rising himself. First around his mother, flocking there for love. Then his father, a ball and chain around his ankle in an attempt to destroy him. And now Akira, the only light in a life that has long since flickered out.

When has he ever really lived for himself?

Is there any point to bothering to try now?

Akechi shoves his phone in his pocket and drags his feet away from Penguin Sniper. Each step a firm, furious, footfall as he stomps his way back towards the trains.

He can’t wait for this Palace to end.

Akechi falls onto his couch back in his quiet apartment and stares, face half squished by his cushion, at the little Jack Frost doll. He’s so tired.

He reaches a hand out to poke at it, imitating how Akira had jabbed at his cheek earlier. His own index finger gently probing the doll’s white face. He hates Akira. Hates Maruki.

Hates himself most of all.

Not that the sentiment is anything new. It’s only that he’d hoped he’d stop feeling this way after Shido was dealt with. Even without his contribution to ensuring it happened, Shido is still gone. Locked away and punished publicly.

It shouldn’t be so hard to find equilibrium. A path forward. But what path does he have as a walking ghost?

That’s the real problem he faces. The truth that even though the world is laid out before him, he’s still not allowed to enjoy it. No matter how tidly Maruki sets up the pieces, Akechi can’t line himself up next to Akira and walk beside him. He can’t even take his first unsteady steps towards the future. Because if he does, it will be a future orchestrated by a single man, and he steadfastly refuses to live that way.

If he’s going to live and figure out what that actually means, he’ll do it on his own terms. Only he robbed himself of that choice long ago. So his only path forward is to his demise.

It stings, he can admit that. It is his choice, and he will happily follow it as he has with each and every decision he has made in his life. But the false hope still burns and aches in his heart. It’s cruel, what Maruki has done. But perhaps Akechi deserves someone treating him with cruelty.

He shifts, fingers pinching at the doll’s cheek before he smooths out the fine little tufts of minky fabric to a shine and tugs his arm away.

When Akechi goes to push himself up, pain lances through his head, sparking stars in his vision. His world tilts, fading for a moment. He is untethered, unmoored, floating in a moment that doesn’t quite seem to exist.

His fingers don’t look right. They are flickery and faded, the lines of the cushion just visible through his glove. His breath catches in his throat, for a moment he thinks this is it. Akira has realized I’m not alive.

And then everything snaps back into place with a vicious tug, a wire that wrenches him back into firm reality. He gasp as he falls back down onto the cushion, head spinning, stomach churning. A migraine plays behind his eyelids, swimming pain he can’t shake.

Something is very wrong.

His hands fumble for his phone, he doesn’t care that Sumire has called on Akira’s time, this is an actual emergency. He smacks the call button and waits. And waits. And waits.

He gets Akira’s answering machine. He hangs up before bothering to leave a message, switching to typing. His hands shake so badly he ends up with a jumble of letters that make no sense. He breathes, drawing in air in a long even line, trying to center himself again. When he doesn’t feel like he’s going to shake apart, he clears out the mess of text and starts again.

Akechi: Something happened. We need to meet right away.

The normal swish that accompanies a sent message doesn’t sound. Instead he gets a flat ping of failure. He tries again. Another error.

His heart thuds against his chest, panic attempting to claw its way forward as he wrestles it back down. Two more deep breaths, and he hits send again. At last it swishes away.

Not even a second later another message appears on his phone from a number he’s confident he never entered.

Maruki: Apologies for the intrusion. Please meet me at the palace.

Then another:

Maruki: I can help.