#Localized Lobotomy

[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

~

“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.

[marmialadee]

Sveltecore is so real for this

[robinspinknest]

... pick yr poison ...

[sillyt1ll7]

Like why does everything have to be so against me just let me wear my cute clothes

[foreverephemeral]

@miltonlibassistantn1fan oh boy oh buddy pal I sure hope nothing happens during the Mass Ascension, an event that famously caused no issues whatsoever. that'd be really unfortunate

[seraphineailes-555]

"You're such a clown!"

~ Thank you ~

[livgrl22]

[unemployedsage]

[dollsmortuary]

[weloveakechi]

Chapters: 2/? 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 Summary:

Sumire frowns, and steps closer before kneeling before the tank. There is something inside, obscured by murky green liquid. Once she’s level with the figure she can at last see them.

Or rather him.

Her breath leaves her chest in a rush. Surprise and shock crash into her. Because floating in the tank, hidden from direct view from the door by tables, is an unconscious Akechi-senpai. Or someone who looks exactly like him.

~

When they step out into reality Goro takes a few seconds to pick up on their location. They’re in front of a stadium that is in the middle of being constructed. He figures out that much before the complete and all encompassing exhaustion hits him.

It’s worse than when he’d woken, groggy and sick and unable to even stand on his own. His head so stuffed full of cotton he could hardly understand Yoshizawa. Now he can’t stand because he has no energy. He drops, a cup hurtling towards its shattering end. He doesn’t even have the ability to throw a single hand out in an attempt to catch his fall.

Prepared for this, Yoshizawa does catch him. With less grace than she’d used to fling him over her shoulder (which hadn’t been much), but enough strength to keep him from cracking his head open.

“Sorry.” He manages, it feels like his body has turned to lead, “Can’t–”

“It’s okay.” She says, voice so patient he wants to scream.

Everything about this whole situation leaves him wanting to scream until his throat is so raw he can’t anymore. That rage, and fury (and admittedly, fear) is all that is keeping him together. It’s a simmering pot of emotion hot enough to stave off the way every atom of his being wishes it could disappear.

At least this time she’s not going to drag him at a breakneck speed.

“Here.” She tugs him over to the wall of wood panels erected to keep out gawkers and teens alike, and helps him sit against it.

It takes his mind a long time to realize the scratchy feeling he’s now experiencing is that same wood against the skin of his back. He looks down to find he’s still in that same pair of shorts he doesn’t recognize. At least he’s not drenched anymore, but his skin feels tacky, like he’d been dipped in glue that has yet to dry.

“I hoped this wouldn’t be the case, but I prepared for it anyway.” Sumire tells him, picking up on some of his distress.

She kneels down to slip a backpack off her shoulders, to rustle through it. It’s now he realizes she’s dressed in workout sweats, like she’d snuck away from practice to perform this harebrained rescue.

“Think you can get this on, or should I help?” She holds out a navy hoodie so big it will dwarf him. He eyes it unimpressed.

The girl grimaces, “Sorry, I didn’t know what would work best so I just grabbed one from the back of my dad’s closet.”

He snorts, “I doubt my double is this size.”

Color brushes her cheeks, “Just put it on, the driver will look at us weird if you don’t.”

So she’d planned to hail a cab. She’s put a lot of thought into this rescue, more than he deserves. But perhaps it’s not for him at all. She’d sounded so forlorn talking about Akira. Plus he’s seen how she looks at him. This might just be her way of helping him instead.

It takes a monumental amount of effort to reach out and grasp the fabric. He almost gives up, but pride stops him. He’s already been hauled around like potatoes by her, and dragged out of a mad doctor’s trap. He can at least prove his competency by being able to put on a hoodie.

She turns away from him, phone in hand while he struggles with his task. Her voice drifts over, background noise as he focuses all his efforts on slipping the stupid hoodie over his head, and dragging his arms through it.

He hates this. He can only hope sleep will wash away this zombie like feeling. He needs just one thing in his life right now to be under his control. Just one thing so he doesn’t go mad.

Sumire ends the call and turns back to him, apparently not happy with forcing him into a strange hoodie as she shoves a pair of glasses at him, thick framed and battered, “Here’s these too. I don’t think he’ll recognize you, but better safe than sorry right?” Putting them on reminds him vaguely of when Akira had disguised him all those months ago. It’s incredible to think of how much things have changed since then.

“Oh and some sandals.”

Goro slips them on with a scowl, “I look outrageous.”

She pulls back, “I’m sorry.”

That is getting old very quickly, “Stop apologizing.” He tuts. Really she shouldn’t feel like she needs to apologize for anything after dragging his sorry self out of the metaverse singlehandedly.

A light chuckle catches her throat before she can press a palm to her mouth.

“What?” He asks, still snippish. Sue him, he’s having a terrible day.

Sumire sobers up, hand dropping before she answers, “You won’t like to hear it, but that’s the same tone the other you would have taken too.”

He glares at her, “Of course. Why would I want to be reminded that someone has successfully taken over my life so completely?”

Before he can react, she leans forward and drags him into a tight hug, face close to one ear, “For what it’s worth, he’s meant to fool everyone.” Sumire pulls back a little, face utterly sincere as she says, “Dr. Maruki couldn’t have managed such a convincing copy without having you under his thumb. I doubt Senpai would still be speaking with your double if the doctor didn’t have full access to root around your brain.”

It’s both comforting and nauseating, the thought that all this worked because Goro had been trapped in that tank. Held captive without even realizing it. A prize used to make all of Akira’s dreams real without Goro ever having a say in it.

He wants to hate Akira for wishing him back. Wants to scream and rail at how foolish and sentimental the boy is. However, he knows he could also never bring himself to follow through on the emotion. It is as much Goro’s fault for allowing everyone to believe he died.

It makes him sick to think of the thieves running around with a different Akechi. One they might like more. One that was designed to be likable and happy and not scarred in every way he is. Unbroken and polished.

Had that Akechi killed Wakaba? Okumura? Does he carry those sins, or is it just Goro who is saddled with them?

The weight of how utterly fucked up the whole thing is crashes down on him. Grabbing his chest and squeezing, like it’s trying to force every inch of composure out of his body, to leave nothing but a shuddering mess behind.

He’s going to kill Dr. Maruki when he sees him. Rip him limb from limb for stringing him up on puppet wires again. He’ll show him just what it feels like to have someone dig around in his psyche first. Wreak havoc on his heart before he rips it out in reality.

Sumire tightens her hold, tugging him closer. It’s enough to make hot tears prick at his eyes he can’t quite force back.

“I can’t—” The words come out raw.

“It’ll be okay.” She soothes.

He tries again, forcing himself to say the excuse. A bitter pill even he can’t stomach right now, “It’s not a good time to focus on this, the driver will—”

Falling apart right now will do him no favors. They’re in the middle of the street in broad daylight, and waiting on a ride. He needs to keep it together until he’s alone. And even then, if he can just sleep, then Goro knows he can reign in the feelings threatening to overwhelm him. He just needs some time. That’s all.

She shakes her head, “You need this. I’ll just tell them you hurt your foot while we were out. That should work well enough.”

Her presence is a lifeline against the tsunami crashing through Goro. He buries his face in her collar and lets go. The first sob to break through his armor comes out like a croak. The next is the start of a wave of broken noises and half breaths he has little control over. All he can do is cling to Sumire’s coat and let the emotions run their course from grief to panic to fury to despair, hoping they don’t drag him away with them.

Sumire doesn’t speak again, instead keeping her own grip on him tight, holding together all the pieces of him that threaten to wash away in the flood of tears spilling forth.

She holds him until he can pick up those pieces in his own hands and place them shakily back in place. A puzzle set at an angle that threatens to topple at any moment.

“You alright?” Sumire asks at last.

He pulls away to lean back against the wall again as he admits, voice quiet, “I’m exhausted.”

“Just a little longer till we’re home. Then you can rest all you need.” She promises.

Her phone pings. She spares a moment to glance at it, smiling a little, “Driver’s almost here. Come on.”

She helps him to stand again, and Goro wishes she’d left him propped against the wall. His head spins from the action, body no less weighed down now than it had been when he’d first come out of the metaverse. If anything, it’s worse after having sat for a moment.

“Hi, thank you so much.” Sumire says once the car has pulled up and she’s opened the door, “We were really in a pickle!”

Goro scoots inside, his own hello muffled by the sounds of their shifting, even as the driver responds, “Everything okay?”

“Yes! My friend just sprained his ankle. We’re training for a marathon and it’s too far to head back on foot.” The lies are smooth, well prepared. Goro wonders if Sumire stayed up late thinking of all this, she must have. Between the disguises and her readiness to tell him about it earlier.

He eyes her, staring. She doesn’t know him. Not well. Not nearly well enough for such an elaborate scheme as all this has been. Any of the other thieves would have simply told Akira, and let him settle the problem. (Or left him there, a traitorous part of his mind whispers). But she’s done so much. What for?

Perhaps the fake Akechi, made a deeper impression on her than he’d first realized. Or is her crush on Akira simply that strong? But that begs the question of why she didn’t tell him immediately. Surely that would have earned her more credit with him than whatever all this is.

He’s too tired to consider it for long. The lull of the rumbling car and something soft to sit on at last drags at the last of his will to stay conscious. He can ask her once he’s slept.

He makes it all of just inside the door to her home before his eyes start to flutter shut. He’s shocked he’d lasted this long. Uncertainty and danger seem to be all he needed to push his body well past what it wanted to do. But now that they’re inside, in a place of relative safety he quite simply cannot hold out any longer.

“Whoa! Okay, okay.” Sumire stumbles to a stop as he drops the rest of his weight onto her.

Goro hardly feels it as he’s dragged a little closer to her side, and hauled at a quicker pace further in. He probably should apologize for being dead weight for so long, but the thought slips away as soon as it comes.

“Here we go.”

He opens his eyes just enough to see a bed, frilly and pink. Hopefully it’s soft, he thinks and passes out at last.

Dreams plague his sleep.

His vision is warped. Like looking down through the bottom of a glass of water or out a window drenched by rain. Except he’s looking up.

A gentle face peers down at him home to kind brown eyes, shielded behind glasses and fluffy hair that drapes itself down in a graceful curl. He is frowning.

“Oh my, you should still be asleep.” The voice is soft as dandelion fluff, a pantomime of the man's lips as it comes from next to Goro’s ear.

None of this is right. He shouldn’t be here. He should be—where?

Ice floods the area around him. Soaking his skin, clinging to his hair as liquid rushes in from both ends of the thing he’s lying in. Goro yelps, the fog in his mind eased enough for him to throw both hands up, plastering them against the roof of the case.

The doctor stares on unworried.

So Goro screams, fists pounding against it, feet kicking out. The water is coming too fast, before he knows it, it’s spilled over his chin. He sucks in air, filling his lungs as deeply as he can against the inevitable.

His hands still pound at the glass, fists dull against it, his body thrashing as the liquid totally fills the chamber.

The voice comes again, muffled through the liquid, disappointed now, “Just breath, you’ll be fine.”

He can’t. Can’t he see that? Why doesn’t he understand?

And then he’s drowning, his breath rushing out in a storm of bubbles. The liquid tastes as bad coating his mouth as it did coming up. Except now it floods his lungs, as they break.

He needs out. Needs air. His lungs burn, and he gasps in more liquid, choking and choking and—

He’s in the tank still. Green surrounds him but he’s not drowning anymore. In fact he’s almost comfortable, floating in nothing. Everything is hazy, half there as his eyes try to focus, his brain a pile of fuzzy cotton that’s trying to spark to life.

A face appears above him. Warm eyes crinkled, an uncle come to say hello. Only—something about this man makes Goro afraid.

The face tilts, curious. He can see a hand holding something, a clipboard? Another scribbles on it as Goro fades back away.

The next time he sees the face he feels far more awake. This time he notices the liquid he’s breathing. It’s uncomfortable, painful even, drawing something that isn’t a gas into his lungs. When he tries to stop his body jerks, needing the oxygen almost immediately.

“My apologies, but I tried to do this while you were unconscious and only ended up with muddled results.” There is that voice again, gentle, unworried.

Goro blinks up at messy hair and glasses reflected in a brighter light. Something flashes, and then his body feels like it’s on fire.

He gasps, catching more of the liquid in a sickening swallow as the pain ratchets up another notch, zeroing in on his head. His fingers grab at nothing, body spasming in the liquid as his vision wavers.

He is in class, bored and thinking about an upcoming meeting with Sae to discuss the ongoing Phantom Thief issue.

Then he is in Mementos sick from using Call of Chaos, a migraine pounding out a rhythm behind his eyes.

Akira is beside him, and they’re at the bathhouse, water steaming as Goro tells him far too much about his own past, revealing more than he’d ever intended.

He jerks, trying to pull his mind away from the memories, but it only makes everything worse. A scream tears itself out of his throat, bubbles flooding the liquid ahead of him.

“I am sorry. I really didn’t want to hurt you, but don’t worry, you won’t remember any of this.”

Goro wants to claw at his own head, wants to tear out the heart of the man that keeps doing this to him. He doesn’t care that he won’t remember. It doesn’t change the fact that it’s agony now. It doesn’t change how his mind feels like it’s being sawed in half.

“It won’t be long now.” The voice soothes, “It’s all going to be fine.”

The memories don’t stop. He wants to black out but something keeps him conscious through it all, a presence that drags him back everytime the spots in his vision take over. He’s left screaming until he can’t anymore, until the waves of memories and pain are all there is until—

Goro wakes with a gasp, coughing as he rolls over, hands scrabbling at fabric below him. It takes him a moment before his mind catches up with reality, he is breathing air. He’s in Sumire’s home, not that lab. He’s fine.

His heart races as he curls tightly in on himself. Fuck. He’s certain those were memories. Ones he’d rather not experience again. Bial claws its way up his throat. He swallows it back with some effort.

It takes a long time before he stops shaking.

When he does, he slowly takes stock of his actual physical state. The overwhelming heaviness from before has lifted, as has how sluggish his mind felt. He’s still not at a hundred percent, as a headache pulses behind his eyes and his stomach reminds him viciously that he hasn’t had a substantial meal in–he hadn’t even asked Yoshizawa what the date was. But a long time.

He also feels completely disgusting.

Goro shoves himself up on the bed and finds he’s been draped in a blanket. He’d have slept like the dead even without it, but it’s a nice gesture. He tugs it off and looks around the room. It’s a girl’s, that is clear enough. But if it belongs to Sumire or her deceased sister he has no idea.

There’s a bedside table with some clothes stacked atop it, tags visible. He winces, he must have been out for a while if Sumire had enough time to go shopping for him.

He pokes at it, they’re not really his favored style but at least he has something clean to wear. A warm hoodie in black, plus some jeans that are surprisingly the right size. Had she guessed, or texted someone?

His balance is still a little wobbly as he stands, which he attributes to low blood sugar and a coma like sleep. He scoops up the clothes and scopes out the room, it thankfully leads into a connected bathroom and shower. Towels have already been laid out on the counter for him as well.

His reflection is everything he’d imagined it to be and more. His face is pale, colored only by the ugly purple circles under his eyes, lips chapped and red. His hair is the worst part of his appearance, plastered to his head in some places, while other clumps poke out at odd angles from how he’d slept. He pokes at it, finger brushing across strands that are stiff, like he’d coated them in gel and winces. Disgusting.

Goro flicks the shower on to its hottest temperature before he strips. His shorts crack as they come off, bits of whatever sludge he’d been encased in flaking off them. They go straight into the trash, along with his underwear. Thank goodness for the new pack Sumire had stacked atop the rest of the clothes.

The old hoodie at least is salvageable and is folded and set on the counter. He can only assume Sumire already took his glasses and the sandals, because he hasn’t seen those since he passed out.

He’s going to owe her so much after all this. He already owes her a huge debt. He has no idea how he’ll repay it all.

But he will. No matter what.

He steps into the shower then gasps as the searing water hits his skin. For a beat he’s back in the tank. His body jerks back, hands flying out to hit nothing. He sucks in air, it’s fine, it’s not the same icy cold that had enveloped him. This is the opposite, so hot it’s painful.

It gets easier the longer he stands there, until at last he can move properly to start cleaning away the itchy feeling still clinging to his skin. After a moment, he fiddles with the temperature to something more bearable, but still hot.

He scoops up a bottle of body wash and a washcloth then gets to scrubbing. Chipping away at the grime that feels like it coats every inch of him. Which, it does. He’d been immersed in that tank. The memory of the bitter taste of the liquid comes back, making him scrub twice as hard, leaving his skin pink and stinging in the water.

When he’s finished with his body, he goes after his hair next. He has to put in some elbow grease to work the shampoo into his hair. Washing it twice before it feels normal again. Conditioner goes in next, he’s no slouch to his normal routine, especially when the supplies are on hand. And at last he’s left feeling more like himself again.

Whatever that means in this warped reality.

Sumire is waiting for him in the living room when he makes his way down the hall, hair towel dried, bag with his soiled clothes in his hands. Her outfit is relaxed, a skirt, some leggings, and a polkadot sweater. Her hair’s pulled back in a messy bun as she scrolls her phone on the couch.

She looks up when he enters, “Feeling better?”

He nods, “How long was I out for?”

She considers the question, glancing down at the time on her phone, what he’d give to have his back. He still doesn’t know what day it is.

“About eighteen hours give or take.”

That’s not too bad considering his captivity. Speaking of which, “What day is it?”

Her eyes widen, “Oh! I never even told you when it was. I’m so sorry.”

Goro shoots her a look that he hopes conveys his desire for her to stop apologizing. She presses her lips together for a beat, chagrined, “The twenty-second. It’s Sunday, so I didn’t miss school for this or anything.”

Every new revelation is like a brick to his head. He’d run into Maruki on the sixth, or was it the seventh? He can’t quite remember. It doesn’t change the fact that he’d been gone for two weeks. His vision narrows, breath catching in his throat, hands curling, one into a fist, the other tightening around the bag he’s holding.

“You still okay?” She asks, helping ground him.

“No,” It’s honest, “But I will be once I’ve had a chance to take a couple shots at the good doctor.”

He can tell she’s making an effort not to give him a pitying look, which he appreciates, “First things first though, we gotta get the whole doppelgänger issue sorted out. Let me text Akira and see when he can meet today. And then you need to eat.”

At those words, Goro’s stomach growls. Sumire grins before ducking her head to stare at her phone, fingers tapping at the screen, “I’m not telling him anything about you, just saying I’d like to meet today and that it’s important.”

“That’s fine.” Goro tells her.

While he waits he steps across the room, past her and a coffee table, and an armchair until he sees the kitchen. Some digging quickly reveals the trash can, into which he tosses the bag he’s been dragging around with him.

“There’s soup in the fridge!” Sumire calls, “Put the pot on the stovetop to warm up.”

He does as he’s told, and finds a spoon to stir it with. Better to be doing something, even if it’s rather pointless, than sit with his thoughts or worry about what they’ll do if Akira says he’s busy.

The soup looks good, veggies and shredded chicken poke their way up as he drags the spoon through the broth. As it starts to warm and savory scents drift up to him his stomach curls tightly, so hungry he feels nauseated.

“He says he can meet later. Where do you want to go?” Sumire asks, stepping over to stand by him.

The confirmation that they will be meeting unspools a tight knot that had made its home in his chest, “Kichijoji.” Goro says, the answer automatic, “That cafe all three of us ate at.”

“Oh! I remember that.” She grins, “I had no idea you were a persona user back then either. It’s kind of funny how we all had something to say about the Phantom Thieves, with the leader right there.”

Goro hums his acknowledgment. They’ll have a lot to say this time too. He doubts they’ll even make it into the cafe at all. There’s so much to explain. Beyond that, he can’t shake the nagging fear that Akira might decide Goro is the fake rather than the other way around.

Or he won’t, but instead decide he likes the fake Goro better.

After eating, then making a quick stop for shoes that fit (Sumire had apologized six times over making him wear the sandals again, even temporarily), and a trip to the electronics store for a replacement phone Goro finally has a general sense of himself again. He also has a running tally of how much he owes Sumire both monetarily and spiritually going in his head. The amount is getting quite high.

They’re now on the train heading to meet with Akira when Goro finally asks, “Why did you rescue me?”

She blinks at him, as if she is shocked by the question.

He scowls, waving a hand, “You could have simply told the others. Not done all of this.”

“Ah.” She looks down at her hands, gloved fingers tangled together, “It’s complicated.”

Goro’s eyes narrow, “Try me.”

Sumire sighs, and leans back, turning her face towards him, “It wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t have done that to you, any of it. I mean once he knew you were fine, he should have fixed things. But he needed to have total control over the situation.”

Her eyes search him, “Besides, would you have wanted the rest of the thieves crowding around you? Wanted that other Crow there too?” She shakes her head, “I don’t think you would.”

She’s right. He’d have hated that. The memory of being found, half drowned and drugged by all of Akira’s friends would have haunted him day and night. He’s debased himself enough in front of them. No need to make it worse.

“And–” Sumire continues, “Well I didn’t know how anyone was going to react. What if the other Crow did something to you? Or they all jumped to the wrong conclusion?” She sounds broken up, “It would have been even worse. And you don’t deserve that.”

The waver in her voice makes him snap, “Why do you even care?” It’s mean and callus, and not what she deserves in return for her kindness. But Goro cannot admit to being good. If he were, he would not be in this situation at all.

She takes in a slow breath, eyeing him carefully, “You saved me. Or, the other you did. And I know it wasn’t you who helped me, but I feel like you would have done the same exact thing. I wanted to repay that favor.”

A sour feeling claws its way up Goro’s throat at her admission. He doesn’t know if he would have helped her. Maybe he would, but he doesn’t know what the situation was. Either way, he hates knowing all this is once again because of someone else. He wishes it were him who’d lived that moment instead of a copy.

“I might not have, you have no idea what I would actually do.” He tells her, he has to make sure she knows.

Sumire presses her lips together before she shakes her head, “You would have. I know enough from how Senpai talks about you. You’d hate what Dr. Maruki did.” She sighs, “He was my therapist before all of this. I didn’t realize it then, but instead of helping me walk through my grief he used his persona to make me believe I was my sister.”

Her hands unclasp and clasp again, nerves finding their escape in that movement, “At the time I thought that’s what I wanted, but it wasn’t right. He shouldn’t have made that decision for me just because it made me happy. Because in the end I wasn’t really happy, I was just lying to myself.”

She’s right. The more Goro hears about Dr. Maruki the angrier he gets. Not just for himself, but everyone. To falsify one person’s reality is bad enough, but that of the world? It is conceited, self aggrandizement to its highest degree.

“Senpai, Crow, and I found ourselves in his palace right near the beginning of all this and that’s when I learned the truth about myself. I didn’t have the strength to deal with it then, but you and Senpai didn’t give up on me.” She says, “You especially pushed me without sugar coating things. Even after I came to my senses. It’s something I really appreciate.”

Goro swallows, “It wasn’t—”

“I know.” She shrugs, “But be honest, you would do the same right?”

He hates that he would, because it just means the fake is that much more like him.

It strikes him that if Maruki had known Goro was alive first the only thing would have changed about this was that instead of just trapping Goro, he would have likely dug into his mind like he had Sumire’s. Used that power to string him up on a wire and made him dance before everyone. A perfect little puppet to act in his play.

“I won’t lie to you, and I certainly won’t let you lie to yourself.” Goro promises, so he can stop thinking, “This whole perfect world is a sham, it makes me sick.”

She smiles, “I hoped you’d say that. Anyway, that’s why I felt like I had to be the one to help you, because you would have helped me too.”

[marueatskids]

TW: blood (a little)

gavv lobotomy

[marmialadee]

Joan of arc vibe

[robinspinknest]

[sillyt1ll7]

[mimi--diary]

🪷

[seraphineailes-555]

It's only hubris if I fail