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philliamwrites · 4 years ago

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One Fool's Heart [Rank 3]

Fandom: Persona 5

Pairing: Akira / Reader, later: Akira / Akechi (one-sided)

Warnings: age difference, consensual underage romance, implied/referenced self-harm, implied/referenced child abuse, references to depression, unreliable narrator, angst, hurt & comfort, p3 cameos, p4 cameos, no persona 5 royal spoilers

Summary: All you wanted was a nice part time job to scrape by. But if you had known how much of a smug sass-master Akira Kurusu would turn out to be, you’d have thought twice about agreeing to tutor him.

Notes: Rank 2 | Rank 4 Masterlist

[Rank 3]

Open mouthed, you stare at the little screen in your hands, the voices reaching you through a little bud in your left ear. Narukami does you the favour and taps a finger against your chin, successfully telling you to close your mouth.

“What in the world is happening,” you mutter, pausing the news coverage of Ichiryusai Madarame’s confession of child abuse and plagiarism. That in itself is uprooting the foundation of the art world but two words keep replaying in your mind like a broken record. Phantom Thieves. Either their music just really really touches people’s souls and pushes the word catharsis to a whole new level, or this really is an organisation capable of changing people’s hearts.

“I don’t believe this,” you say. “Can you believe this?” You shove Narukami’s phone in his face. He gently pushes your hand down, the enthusiasm about being blinded by the blue light his screen emits akin to a cashier working the third night shift in a row. “Freaking unbelievable,” you mutter, pulling your hand back to rewind the video to rewatch it just to make sure you’ve heard right.

“Something tells me you don’t share the mass’ enthusiasm,” Narukami says, reaching into the bag of sweets. One leg is leisurely sprawled over your lap as he switches through the TV channels, looking for an interesting documentary. “Why do you think this is so unbelievable?” That’s a lot of 'believe' you guys are throwing around at 10 in the morning on a Saturday, and something about it makes you feel really jittery.

“A change of heart? Do I have to spell it out for you?” Your voice reaches uncomfortable heights, and your hands begin to flutter in anxious gesticulation like excited butterflies. “Let’s say hypothetically they’re capable of doing it with orthodox methods. Why would anyone shit deep into illegal stuff like Madarame even go along with it?”

“I believe the news leaked a calling card saying they’d steal his twisted desires. Doesn’t sound like he gave it up voluntarily,” Narukami says matter-of-factly and you can see him exactly like this, ten years from now, sitting in the court, and dealing the accused person blow after blow with his arguments, infuriating them with his stoic expression. Somehow you thought he’d be a tad more passionate about this topic. Is stealing hearts even legal? Eventually, you lean back and put the phone away, pulling the bud out.

“Well, good for the kids who are out of that crappy place. Hopefully now they’ll get something like a future,” you say, grabbing for the bag, but Narukami wrestles it out of your grip, and orders you to eat something decent that’ll get meat on your bones. You flip him off.

“We’ll see how the case will be treated. One of my professors tries to study it as much as the responsible prosecutor allows.” Narukami stops at a documentary about spotted hyenas. You watch them play around and bite at each other, the narrator’s monotone voice quickly putting you back into a sleepy state. Out of nowhere, Narukami suddenly asks, “How’s tutoring going?”

“Good. It’s fun. I just don’t really know how to feel about my student.”

Narukami raises an eyebrow. “Feel?”

“Think, I mean,” you quickly correct yourself, though right now everything points toward his existence as a brat in your dictionary. Who else just scribbles into someone else’s notes, not to mention bad cat puns. “He went to the reading with me last Saturday. I think he’s alright, but sometimes I can’t really say what he’s thinking.” It’s a little like with Narukami, but you keep that to yourself.

Narukami gives a quiet hum and you’re glad he doesn’t ask further. There’s not much you can say anyway. The silence between you is filled with the narrator’s explanation of hyena’s nutrition, but you aren’t listening anymore. It’s been a while since you and Narukami had a full free day, and it’s started just like one might expect it: you haven’t done anything except laying on your couch and watching TV. A great start. You nearly doze off when a sharp slap on your left thigh gives you a heart attack. Narukami doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Come on, let’s go outside.”

“But it’s Saturday!” you whine, and curl away from him. If you close your eyes, maybe he’ll disappear, and you won’t have to move at all today. But Narukami won’t have any of it. He starts pulling at your ankle, and before you can plant your face on the ground, you surrender and kick him.

“Then see if there’s something interesting going on in Shibuya or Harajuku,” you say, and don’t miss the smug grin on Narukami’s face, so you throw a pillow after him. Swiftly, Narukami dodges with an easiness that might suggest it isn’t his first time. Showoff. Just before you’re about to get up to get ready, your phone buzzes in the cushions next to you. The very first letter on the screen is enough to make you automatically press on the red button. Beside you, Narukami watches you from the corner of his eyes, but doesn’t comment on it.

It’s quiet outside, which is surprising because usually people spend their day off roaming through the streets. That is until you reach Shibuya Central Street and people are overrunning the shops and restaurants. The diner is packed, but you manage to bully some kids away from their table after making sure they’re done with their food. You humbly accept Narukami’s disapproving head shake, and order two bowls of Gyuudon, Narukami’s with extra meat because he’s still growing and that’s what boys his age need. After he judges you long enough for that decision, you move on to comfortable banter and chat about some of your fellow students; about pretty much anything except his upcoming internship he still hasn’t decided on where to go, and you don’t want to start an argument with telling him he should go to Tanaka’s Attorney Office.

Around an hour later you’re ready to hit the streets. There are some shops you want to visit, and you should do that before Narukami decides to leave and with him your chance of someone carrying your bags. When the waitress comes to get the money, you place your hand on Narukami’s, who’s holding his purse, and push it away.

“It’s okay,“ you say. “It’s on me.” Narukami’s suspicious eyebrow-raise is really uncalled for, and yet you can’t blame him. “Let me be your sugar daddy for an exchange.” He still looks very, very unimpressed.

“It’s a thank you,” you finally say, pulling your hand back. “For putting up with me.”

“There you go.” He smiles, and it does wonders to your belly. As kind as Narukami is, somehow his genuine smiles are a rarity. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?” Okay, you take back the ‘kind’-part, but there’s only so long you can be dissatisfied with him, when he gets up and ruffles your hair. He excuses himself to the restroom, and you wait for the waitress to bring the receipt, when a familiar curly, black haired head peaks inside the diner, followed by two teenagers wearing the same uniform. Your first instinct is to dive head first under the table, just like anytime you see someone you’re acquainted with, but then you remember you haven’t a) done something stupid in front of him (yet), nor b) had an uncalled one-night stand with him, so everything is fine. When Kurusu notices you, you wave, and he understands it as an open invitation to sit at your table. His friends hesitate for the briefest of seconds, just to appear polite, but they quickly follow him, obviously interested, and take the not so open space beside him so all three are cramped in the little booth opposite from you. That can’t be comfortable.

“Hey there!” The girl is the first to reach out her hand, honouring you with a thousand watt smile that makes you want to shield your eyes. “I’m Ann!” You take her hand, and when she squeezes back with enough force to break your fingers, not giving you any of that too-shy-to-properly-shake-hands-crap, you’re pretty much a goner. God, she probably smells really good. Like flowers. It takes every ounce of your self-control not to smell your hand like a creeper. Akira gives you a questioning look when you stare daggers into him, jealous of how his shoulder presses into hers.

“Ditching classes?” You grin and lean back, ignoring the pang of jealousy at how good all three of them look together. Kurusu leans forward, resting his arms on the table, reducing the space you’ve just created.

“They ended earlier because of a staff meeting.” His eyes rest on the two empty glasses on the table, before he suspiciously unsuspicious looks around for the missing person.

“What about you?” The blond guy to his right asks. “Ditching school yourself?”

“School?” you say at the same time Kurusu nudges his friend with his elbow and whispers, “Ryuji.”

Ryuji either plays dumb or really doesn’t get it. “What?” He also fails spectacularly at subtlety. Somewhere to his far left, Ann groans.

“I didn’t know college was mandatory these days,” you say, and when realisation sinks into Ryuji, he gawks at you, then at Kurusu.

“Dude, you’re friends with a college chick?!” he yell-whispers. Kurusu cringes. You cringe. Did Narukami fall into the toilet or why is he still not coming?

“She’s my tutor,” Kurusu clarifies, avoiding the ‘friend’ part, and that’s cool. It’s totally okay. The sting in your chest is probably from something weird you’ve eaten and totally uncorrelated to what he just said. Guess now you can say goodbye to friendship bracelets and his entry in your friendship book.

“Well, college sounds awesome!” Ann quickly adds, probably noticing the failure on Kurusu’s part as well. “What’s your major?”

Sometimes you wish people would just ask if you liked your classes or the canteen food.

“Psychology,” you mumble.

“Oh, man! That’s so cool!” Ryuji jumps in his seat like a little kid allowed to ride the Ferris wheel. “Can you like … analyse my behavioural patterns and then connect that to a specific episode of my childhood?”

All eyes are on Ryuji. He stares back. “Hey, what’s all the gawking for?”

“I’m a scientist, not a wizard,” you say. “Also, maybe lay off from the TV shows you’re watching.”

Ann shakes her head. “I’m just surprised he knows a big word like ‘behavioural’.”

“Oh yeah? I know a lot of big words! Like, uh … hyper honder!”

The silences stretches into uncomfortable territory. You’re afraid to break it first.

“Hyper what even,” Ann asks, tapping her manicured fingers impatiently on the table.

“Hypochondria?” Kurusu adjusts his glasses, blinking sheepishly. Did he pick that up from your notes? Did he actually read them?

“Yeah, that’s what I said!”

“Suuure.” Ann draws out the vocals, her words turning into a sing-song when she turns back to you. “So! Anything you can recommend us when we’ll apply next year?” Her interest and enthusiasm throws you off. You can’t really remember when you were doing in your last year of high school, and how you managed to get through that. Ryuji eyes her like he can’t believe the level of boot licking she’s capable off. Luckily, Narukami returns and saves you from giving an answer. He calls you, but when you turn around, he’s staring at Kurusu with an intensity that’s telling he is seconds away from clocking him. A glance back shows you, Kurusu is staring as much, but not at Narukami. His eyes are strained at some invisible spot above Narukami’s head, mouth slightly open in awe. Is this what people call love at first sight? Wait, does Kurusu even swing that way?

“Oh, sorry! We didn’t mean to hold you up!” Ann is already pushing Ryuji to make him get out, and fill the space you’re about to give them. “Please tutor us as well once exams are around!”

Kurusu finally turns his head away, and mumbles something to Ann you can’t hear. All your intention goes to how good they look next to each other, his head dipping to whisper something in her ear. Her eyes go wide for a fraction, before she squints and then the radiant smile is back in full force. Oh. God. Did he say something like “I can tutor you, if you know what I mean,” because Kurusu totally looks like he’d go for something like that. Yup, he totally would, judging from how he notices you staring, and winks like a bad boy straight out of an American romance movie ready to steal your girl. Yeah, you’re pretty sure he’d have been capable of stealing her if she hadn’t dumped your sorry ass first.

“Well, gotta go.” Your bones pop when you stretch, demonstrating the young kids their impending doom in a couple of years. “And my advice? Don’t do drugs, kids.”

Kurusu grins at you in what you can only describe as unbashful challenge. “See you tomorrow, teach.”

When you turn to go, you see that Narukami is still staring at Kurusu. There’s something solemn in his expression, and the hint of a softness you’ve only seen when he talks about his niece. His goodbye is a soft, silent nod, and once your outside he instantly goes for the kill. “So that’s the kid you’re tutoring. Seems nice.”

“I didn’t know your consciousness allowed you to lie.”

He hums, amused. “I’m not a saint.”

Yes, you are, you think. I want you to be a bit more of a bad person. Before your kindness strangles you. “No, you’re right,” you say instead. “He’s a good kid.”

“She said like an old woman.”

Narukami’s reward is a kick to the shin, to which he answers with a laugh, and for that brief moment everything feels alright, the world is a peaceful place, the universe is kind to you. Inside your pocket, your phone vibrates once, indicating a message. While Narukami is talking, you sneak a tiny glance to skim the text. Six words punch like little needles through your eyes.

You have permission to see him. D.

“Are you okay?” Narukami’s voice is distant, blurry. Drowning behind a rushing waterfall of hopes you’ve dried out years ago. The answer is stuck somewhere between your ribcage and throat, but without a hook you won’t be able to get it out. A hand lands on your shoulder, hoping to reassure, but instead it is a noose around your neck. You step away from Narukami. His hand falls back to his side.

“I need to go.”

“What’s wro—”

“Forget it.”

Whatever he calls after you drowns in the crowd after you dive into it, heading for the train station. It’s unfair. Narukami deserves better than this, but trust is held captive behind spiky bars somewhere deep inside your chest, and you don’t remember where you left the key. Not that it matters. What matters is that finally, you can go and see him; that in a short while, your world will slide back into its right order. All the way to the clinic, you feel a tight pulling in your chest towards the place. Your heart is longing for your other half and the meeting in sight sets your nerves on fire.

It takes about half an hour until you reach Akasaka Station, and fifteen more until you’re standing in front of the Psychiatric Clinic. Just the sight of it is enough to turn your stomach upwards, planting a feeling of dread inside your ribcage where its roots are only inches away from worming into your heart. Inside, the stench of sanitiser is unbearable, but despite what this facility is supposed to do, most of the nurses and doctors ignore how you’re seconds away from throwing up on the floor. The woman sitting at the front desk is bored beyond measure, dismissing you with a form to fill out before they can let you into the visiting room. Between all those people waiting for their turn, you’re a powder keg about to explode, when finally, Dr. Oyamada comes and picks you up, or at least that’s what you think, but when he doesn’t lead you to the designated room, and instead obstructs your view from the hallway behind him, you know immediately this won’t end good.

“Apologies, but we cannot allow you to see the patient,” Oyamada states. At least he has the decency to focus his attention on you, and not thumb through the charts clamped between his side and arm.

“What? No.” This is the last thing you wanted to hear. “No, I was told I can come, and I will go and see him.”

“I would let you, but as it is now, the patient is unstable. To prevent you from getting hurt during the visit, we will postpone it to a more appropriate day.”

“He won’t hurt me,” you hiss, the dreadful plant inside you catching fire and scorching your insides. “Just give us five minutes.”

“I can’t allow that,” he says, voice far away. “I’m sorry.”

If only his sorry would be good for something, rather than just being hollow words he’s playing on a record over and over again. You outweigh the chances of getting committed to the same ward as him if you attack the Doctor. They look immensely slim.

“Can’t you at least tell me what’s wrong?” you make a last attempt. “Don’t I deserve to know?”

Oyamada stares at a chart, then drags his eyes back to you and sighs. “He returned to drastic measures we thought he’s finally stopped to do.” He doesn’t need to say more, and you don’t need to hear more. The picture of scars curving valleys into damaged skin sits right behind your eyes, the shudder wrecks your whole body. “I’m sorry,” he says like a parrot. “We’d hoped that his rehabilitation would go smoother. As for now, we are unsure of what caused the drawback.”

“Maybe you guys could actually let him see his family. You ever considered that might help?”

Oyamada gives you a quiet, disapproving look, and yes, this may be not the first time him hearing a thing from a patient’s relative, but maybe it’s time to think about the reason people are complaining about that. Judging from the way his body already turns into the direction of the hall leading further into the building, this conversation is over, and with that, any hope of seeing your brother dies.

____________________________

“So the answer is -2, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“And now I can use this result for the next equation?”

“Hmm.”

“My cat can talk.”

“Okay.”

Golden silence fills the cafe for a moment, allowing your mind to replay yesterday’s conversation with Oyamada without having to give noises as reply to whatever Kurusu wants. Okay, you might not be the most attentive tutor at the moment, but so far Kurusu hasn’t given you anything to worry about, so spacing out a little won’t damage your non-existent teacher reputation.

It still bothers you, and after a night of restless sleep and stumbling thoughts, you always come to the conclusion that your parents must have known. They must have been the very first to know, and decided to let you go anyway; to see for yourself what they knew you wouldn’t have believed them. It’s the only thing that makes sense. If they’d told you that your brother’s condition has worsened, you’d have called it bullshit, but a doctor; his doctor … maybe his condition really has worsened … or hasn’t been good from the very beginning. You don’t want to be paranoid, but this being a scheme from your parents and the hospital authorities might just be your kind of luck. Or rather, you wouldn’t put it past them, which pulls everything to a whole new level of screwed up. Maybe you should talk to Narukami about corruption in healthcare.

The bell rings, and its clear sound manages to dissipate the fog in your head. When your eyes focus back to what’s in front of you, you notice Kurusu is looking at you with an almost methodical glare, like a scientist might regard the animal he is about to dissect.

“What?” you say, shifting uncomfortably. To keep your hands busy, you reorganise the stack of paper that doesn’t need reorganisation.

“Something is on your mind,” Kurusu unhelpfully declares, putting his pen down. He’s sitting opposite from you, one arm moves in a stroking motion as he pets Morgana who’s sleeping on his lap. “I don’t think we can continue like this.”

A dozen excuses wait on the tip of your tongue for your mouth to unleash them, but Kurusu regards you with such a piercing gaze, you feel the carefully constructed walls crumble.

“Okay,” you say like it doesn’t hurt your pride. “You’re right. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise,” he says, cleaning his learning material from the table. Morgana gives a protesting meowl, glaring up at him at being woken. “Everyone has a bad day from time to time.”

“I’ll think of a special exercise for our next meeting,” your offer. “So just revise the subjects, and we’ll talk more later.”

“Special exercise.” Kurusu smiles. “Exciting.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.” But it elicits a little smile from you as well, and from the way you notice Kurusu’s eyes light up, he’s fulfilled his goal.

Saving you both an awkward pause, you finally get up. “Well, enjoy your free evening. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

But before you can even take a step towards the exit, Kurusu quickly says, “You don’t have to go.” He glances in Boss’s direction. “We could hang out.”

“Hang out?” Apparently, you’ve become a parrot. The clock on the wall next to the coffee bean shelves tells it’s just past seven, so technically there would be one more hour of tutoring. There’s no harm in getting to know your student better, so shrugging, you say, “Sure.”

Kurusu gets up. “We’ll go upstairs,” he tells Boss who stares daggers at Kurusu.

“Don’t try to do anything funny to her,” he says to Kurusu, which surprises you, because yeah, he’s the guy, but you’re older, so shouldn’t he be saying that to you? “I’ll call you once dinner’s done, so be ready.” He shoos you away, and goes back to reading the newspaper. Feeling nervous all of a sudden, you follow Kurusu upstairs, hearing the soft pitter-patter of Morgana following you. The attic is a big, spacious room with little furniture save for a bed, a table, two shelves, an old TV and a couch that’s seen better days. He sits on it, and looks expectantly up at you like a puppy waiting to be pet. You take the seat beside him, looking for something interesting in his room.

“You’re a fan of Risette?” you ask, noticing the poster on the opposite wall. She looks really cute.

“It was a present. I don’t know much about her only that she’s famous.”

“Ahh, unfortunate. I know someone who’s friends with her. I could have arranged a date for you.” Jokingly, you nudge his side with your elbow. Kurusu gives a hollow sound as response.

“Did something happen yesterday after you left?” So he’s going straight to the point. Baffled with how fearless he tackles the question, you can’t help but shift a little away from him. It doesn’t go unnoticed. Kurusu turns around and looks at you. Everything about him right now is so alert, so keen, you feel exposed to a sharp-witted animal; a falcon ready to pounce on a mouse.

“Did you bring me up here just to ask me about that?” You don’t want to sound like you expected something different, but well that you didn’t expect either. Why is he so interested?

“I thought you might want to talk about it.” He shrugs, relaxes beside you.

“And what makes you think you’re the person I want to confide in?”

Kurusu hesitates, but instead of surrendering and retreating back to safety, he goes for a full assault. “Because we’re friends.”

Oh, boy. His words are an arrow driving through your heart. You didn’t know you wanted to hear those words until he said them, and your chest fills with fluttering butterflies and singing birds praising the day. Biting your lower lip, you try not to grin.

“That’s … well. I’m just not good at this.” You swing your hand around the air, not elaborating if you mean talking about what’s bothering you or friendship. Kurusu nods like he understand it’s probably both.

“Okay. Let’s just do something to get it off your mind then.” He gets up and stretches. You stare holes at his wall to avoid seeing how his shirt rides up and exposes a stripe of pale skin. “What do you usually do to clear your head?”

You sink back into the cushions, finally looking up at him when his arms fall back to his sides. “I don’t know. Listen to music?”

Kurusu perks up at that, and quickly goes to the shelf opposite the couch where from the lowest rack he pulls out an ancient record player. After shoving stuff and Morgana, who hisses and flings his tiny paws at him, off his table (wait, is that a lockpick?), he plugs it in. White noise fills the room, then the unmistakable intro of a barber shop song starts and you sit up straighter. “No way,” you say. Kurusu nods, grinning. “Yes way.”

“Bobby Darin? How old are you really, Kurusu?” you say but you’re already smiling from ear to ear. Ignoring your question, he carefully moves his hips, then steps around, and it takes a moment for your brain to understand he’s dancing. Nothing extravagant, just moving in sync with the melody, snapping his fingers whenever the notes end. He moon-walks, freaking moon-walks to where you sit, then stretches his hand out to you. “Can I steal this dance?”

Your brain panics, betrays you, and goes full Highschool Musical. “I don’t dance.”

It turns out Akira Kurusu is your soulmate. He says, “I know you can,” and you wonder where he’s been all your life.

“Not a chance.” But Kurusu has already taken your hand, and pulls you to your feet, bringing your smaller body flush against his. Okay, wow. That you did not expect. And of course, as it is in those situations, you don’t miss how good he smells. Coffee (what a surprise), but also something sweeter underneath it. Or is it spicy? Black pepper maybe?

Good thing you don’t need to focus on moving, because Kurusu is calling the shots and dictates the rhythm, moves you around the room, pulls you forth, then back, then gently pushes his fingers into your side to spin you around.

Whatever this kind of magic is, you’ve never expected it to work on you. It’s a lazy, slow dance, and it reminds you so much of Kurusu, only lazy isn’t the right term for him. Maybe patient? Waiting like a cat for the right moment to strike and just like that, your thoughts are confirmed, because once you’re finally somewhat comfortable with your legs moving like that, you’re brave enough to look up. His face is a lot closer than you expected.

Kurusu dibs his head forward, almost bumping his forehead against yours. “Are you nervous?”

The question makes you stumble more than the dancing, and just like that, he easily kicks down any sort of confidence you assumed you had near him.

“I’m just not really good at this,” you say, and dodge the question which is pretty much the same as saying Yes. Something lights up in Kurusu’s eyes. You’re an open book to him, and that is the scariest part.

The record player sings the next song; it’s slow, sensual and automatically, your bodies come together and drift slowly, and you want to follow all cliches and rest your head against Kurusu’s shoulder, but resist the call in the end. The lines “oh dream maker, you heart breaker” carry your swaying bodies, and you wonder if it’s foreshadowing to how this will end— this what? This is nothing. From beside the bed, Morgana is watching you with a strange gleam in his piercing blue eyes, like he knows exactly what’s going on between you two, but can’t approve of it.

“You know,” Kurusu says, a startling sound against the soft music; more so because you can actually feel his voice rumbling in his chest, and you drag your eyes back to his face. “I’ve only done this with my granny before.”

With any other person, you would have laughed at that. But by now, you’ve learnt Kurusu isn’t just like any other person.

“It’s something more guys should do,” you admit, and then because your legs tingle and you feel feathery, you add, “it’s charming.”

Kurusu bows his head, and smiles like he knows of course it is, the smug ass. “Why thank you.”

“No, but really. Your grandma sounds like a cool person.”

“She is.” He holds his breath. “She was.”

Oh no. “I’m sorry.”

Kurusu gives a half-hearted shrug. “It happens to the best of us,” he says, but his eyes show sadness. You tighten your grip on his hand. He responses with a squeeze.

“I just wish my parents would talk about her from time to time,” he continues. “After she left, they sort of stopped caring.”

“Well, everyone deals in their own way with grief. Some do it better, some worse.”

“But just ignoring it ever happened?” Kurusu replies quietly.

“What can you do, it’s a natural mechanism to protect yourself from more pain. I guess there’s only so much you can endure before your brain decides it’s enough.”

“Is that the therapist talking?” Kurusu asks with an edge to his voice. “Or you?”

You’re surprised he’s mature enough to know there’s a distinction between those. Instead of answering, you say, “Maybe they think one day you’ll understand. Parents tend to underestimate their children on things like that.”

“Is that something you’ve experienced yourself? With your parents, I mean.”

“Uhm, not it’s hmm—” Make it even more obvious that you’re lying. “Something I’ve read about.” Great job.

Kurusu gives you the I-know-you’re-lying-but-I’ll-roll-with-it-look. “Okay. What kind of people are they by the way.”

By the way, he says, like he didn’t actually mean to end up with that topic. Somehow you get the feeling that’s been his goal from the very beginning.

“Just your average people.” You smile and bat your eyelashes like a good girl who’s not lying.

“Well, average is a very broad term.” He smiles as well and bats his eyelashes back at you like a good boy who’s not provoking a fallout.

“Normal people with normal lives,” you elaborate, growing impatient. “Nothing special about them.” Which is the understatement of the century.

Kurusu exhales slowly, then releases you and steps back. It feels like you’re falling. The spell is broken.

“Okay, I won’t ask anymore if it bothers you that much.” He’s right with that, but you don’t understand why he sounds so offended.

“Why are you sulking, Kurusu?”

As response, he jerks his hand up; the very first rash movement you see him doing since you’ve meet. “I’m not sulking,” he says, failing to convince you. “I’m just— Maybe I thought you’d trust me a little more after I told you about what bothers me with my parents.”

You pale at that, then feel a smoldering heat scorch your face. “Well, that’s not how it works! You can’t just expect people to trust you with their problems!”

Something triumphant flares in his eyes, and he raises his chin in blatant challenge. “So you admit there is a problem.”

The way his mind jumps to conclusion leaves you speechless. “Kurusu, you’re just—” So insufferable. Annoying.

You retreat back to the couch, and slump into the cushions with an exasperated huff. Irritated by his probing, you snap with more heat than you want, “What’s wrong with you? just why do you care so much?”

The mistake is done, unrepairable. Kurusu’s eyes widen, then something in them shuts close, and the distance between you becomes palpable. But then a little, unguarded sigh escapes him, so vulnerable and soft, you feel something tighten in your chest. Again, like the day before, he closes the distance, and sits next to you, resting his elbows on his knees as he hunches forward slightly, face resting in his hands. “Because I cannot not care,” Kurusus says quietly. He looks at you through his fingers, and you can see from the way the skin around his eyes pulls up that he’s smiling.

Oh Akira, you think. People like you aren’t meant to bloom in a world like this.

The fight leaves your body, and after that you feel tired and defeated; defeated by something as little as a sad smile.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “Like I said, I’m bad at this stuff.”

Kurusu lowers his hands. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, too. Usually, I’m not— I mean, I shouldn’t be so pushy.” He gives you a quick glance; one that holds a whole world of unspoken words. You sit like that, facing each other and smiling awkwardly, until Boss’s voice rings up, calling you both to come down for dinner.

“Offering you food already,” Kurusu notices. “I think he likes you.”

“Uhm, I don’t know if I can stay.” You take a quick glance at your phone. Yup, it’s past eight. How does dancing and screaming at each other take up so much time. “But his curry usually smells so good.”

“It tastes even better.”

Kurusu wiggles his eyebrows at you. Damned be his incredible powers of persuasion. “Fine, you got me with that one, Kurusu.”

His grin is quickly replaced with a frown. You wait for him to say something, but he only manages to stuff his hands in his pockets.

“What?” you ask.

“Haven’t we reached the point where you call me Akira?” he quietly asks, shifting from right to left. “I mean. If you want. It’s no big deal.” His half-hearted shrug fails to help him look casual. So do his doe-like eyes blinking at you from behind his glasses.

“Fine,” you groan, “you got me with that one, Akira.”

His eyes light up, and he gives you such a disarming smile, it hurts your chest.

From below, Boss calls again, and you’re finally able to break eye contact, unsure if you want to know the answer why your chest feels it’s about to explode from your rapid beating heart.

#philliamwrites #ao3 #fanfiction #reader insert #reader #reader fanfiction #persona 5 #p5 #akira kurusu #ren amamiya #persona 5 joker #akira kurusu x reader #ren amamiya x reader #persona 5 joker x reader

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aliferous-ly · 5 years ago

Note

I've never really asked for a drabble before... If it's okay with you, could you do 7 "I almost lost you" and 32 "I think I'm in love with you and I'm terrified" with Logan and Deceit? I just kinda thought that it had the potential to make some angst with a happy ending. Oh and I only found you recently, but I love the writing that I've seen so far. I always love finding amazing writers. (I'm sorry, I'm a total suck up)

im gonna start this with if you’re on mobile, i am So Sorry

i started this and was like “ha im getting a little carried away” and then went “oh no”

and thank u dear!! that’s v sweet of u awe

summary: Declan is a loud and proud aromantic. Then he realizes why he feels weird, and off, and awkward around his best friend, Logan, and his world starts to crumble.

warnings: f word twice, lying, parent being imprisoned, angst, questioning identity, if there’s anything else lmk!!

It starts, Declan thinks, when Logan smiles.

The situation starts out innocuous -- they’re sitting in Logan’s room, Declan tossing a tennis ball up and catching it unsuccessfully, making a right disaster of Logan’s room with all the objects he keeps knocking to the floor. Logan, naturally, continues doing his homework.

And they’re just -- talking.

Declan likes to think his world should shift on a more momentous occasion, maybe with fireworks, fingers brushing against one another dramatically, Jason Mraz playing in the background.

But it’s the smallest thing. Declan throws the tennis ball up in the middle of his sentence -- “You can’t tell me you hate white pines, they have the softest needles” -- and he misses it on the way down.

So he takes a tennis ball to the face and sits up, sputtering, rubbing at his nose, arm reaching out to snatch it before it rolls too far.

Logan chokes out a laugh, eyes squinty and wrinkled at the edges. His laugh fills the room for a few thrilling moments and Declan thinks it’s the most beautiful sound in the world and he can’t stop staring at Logan’s engaging face, in the upturn of his lips and dimples carved in his cheeks.

He’s radiant.

Declan’s heart squeezes, lungs filling with something heavier than air, a foreign feeling washing through his veins. Like rose petals or sunlight. Woodsmoke or freshly fallen snow.

The gears in his chest shift and settle and he feels… right. More right than he’s ever been.

Which is, of course, why fear swiftly follows this gorgeous wash of emotions, because this is unusual and anything unusual is often bad.

Declan forces down the incoming wave of anxiety, schooling his expression into one of smooth disdain.

Just in time, too, because Logan opens his mouth and says, “It was only a matter of time until you paid for your crimes.”

“I’m too pretty to die,” Declan replies, thanking the heavens that while his brain may be steadily turning into mush (have Logan’s eyes always been that striking? Or his shoulders that broad?) his tongue still works.

“Implying Death themself has a type, intriguing,” Logan says. He flashes a look over his computer, the after effects of joy still written on his features. “Bold of you to declare what Death likes.”

Declan tries for a smirk but can feel the way his mouth turns to genuine grin, the traitor. “Aw, Logie, are you saying I’m not everyone’s type?”

“That would be rather ironic, wouldn’t it?” Logan says wryly. He types away at his computer, dutiously finishing an English assignment that Declan is currently ignoring for bigger and better things. “The aromantic everyone pines over.”

That strikes an odd chord in Declan’s chest, like he’s a half-tone off; not quite wrong, but not quite right, either. His expression must change, because Logan pauses in his typing. He blinks at Declan. “Something wrong?”

Of course, that’s when Declan’s brain decides that those words are simply too much, too much, his shoulders tightening, back tensing. It’s like his rib cage is squeezing his vital organs, which seems rather counterintuitive. He hates this unknown, this awkward buzz against his skin, the prickling feeling through his bones.

The resounding crash of everything happening all at once is overwhelming and Declan can’t seem to decide whether to sit as still as humanly possible or bolt.

Or, of course, do what he does best.

Lie.

“I forgot to do something for my mom,” Declan says, barely registering the words before they fall from his lips. He hasn’t lied to Logan in a very, very long time (he knows it’s because they have been best friends for ages, but his mind twists it into something of a foreshadow, even though it’s not, it’s not) and the resurgence of his bad habits leaves a nasty taste in his mouth, but. Desperate times. Desperate measures.

“Oh,” Logan says, disappointed, and Declan longs to explain -- what?

He angrily shoves the emotions deep into his chest. If he can’t explain them, he’s not going to give them the right of control over his actions.

(He ignores the prevalent fact that he has just lied to his best friend in order to escape his presence, but denial, evidently, is not just a river in Egypt).

“Sorry,” Declan spits out, meaning so much more than it seems. He stands, grabs his backpack, shoving papers and folders into it haphazardly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” Logan calls out hollowly. Declan takes that as his leave and he slips out Logan’s bedroom door, backpack in tow, keys clicking in his pocket.

Something deep inside him aches. But he doesn’t know why.

Frustrated, Declan gets into his car and slams the door shut, fingers white-knuckled against the steering wheel. He takes a breath. He’s fine, he’s fine. He’s probably just sick, or something.

Or something.

Not for the first time, Declan longs for a working aux connection.

Because flicking through radio stations does not help.

Lewis Capaldi croons Someone you loved on one, Sam Smith singing Dancing with a Stranger. He woefully flips through two channels on commercial break, groaning when the last one has Adele, which, really?

He remembers Virgil’s favorite station, and turns up the volume to forty, My Chemical Romance’s Mama screaming from his speakers. He pulls into his driveway with Hallelujah by Panic! at the Disco blowing his ears out when he remembers that Logan once spent hours rambling about Brenden Urie and a conspiracy about curses and he slams his palms on his steering wheel, furious.

Can he not escape Logan for a moment?

As Declan slams the car door shut, throwing his backpack over his shoulders, and freezes at the sight of the stupid Beware, dog sign that Logan had vandelized to read Beware, snake, he realizes that no, he really can’t. Because Logan is his best friend, his favorite person, and his life is irreversibly intertwined with Logan unless he up and leaves with absolutely nothing, starting from scratch. Which would be worse than death.

He trudges up the stairs like a funeral dirge and when his door shuts with a click he leans against it, steadily sliding down until his knees almost touch his chin.

“Fuck,” Declan says out loud, unable to keep the emotion termoil inside like it should be.

His phone buzzes where it fell from his hands, angry against the carpet. Declan sighs. Rubs a hand down his face. And picks up the phone.

There’s one text from Logan that reads, “are you okay? I’m not irritated but you left rather…”

Well. The beginning reads as such. Declan assumes there’s more, but he’s unwilling to open it for the time being.

Then he has three from Virgil, two of which reference an obscure meme video and the third which reads “r u home i wanna play dark souls on ur ps4”.

And there’s a text from Patton asking if he wants normal chocolate chips or mint ones, and a followup that proclaims “never mind i got both! :3c”.

He sends a quick “no” back to Virgil and merely opens the texts from Patton, leaving only Logan’s unopened. I’m not irritated but you left rather… suddenly?

A strange emotion flutters about Declan’s chest and he groans. He doesn’t feel this way about his other friends, not even Virgil, who he’s known for ages and has gone through four too many devastating arguments to not be close with. Nor does he feel like this with Patton, his brother. Those bonds are, he’s certain, platonic--

Declan lurches forwards with a gasp, the realization bowling him over and leaving him breathless. He curls his fingers into the carpet, focusing on the texture instead of the immediate swirl of panic.

He -- does he have a crush on Logan? Him, Declan, the aromantic king, who once boasted the world could never produce a human Declan could fall in love with?

And it doesn’t track with him falling for Logan either because Declan would have loved him months earlier, suddenly falling in love with someone he’s loved platonically… it just doesn’t make sense. Declan can’t wrap his mind around it.

Maybe he’s just reading the emotions wrong. How can he -- what can he do that -- which --

What would Logan do?

An experiment, Declan’s mind supplies helpfully, so, well. Declan pressed his back against the wood of his door and thinks.

Hypothesis: he’s in love with Logan.

In love? A very rational part of his brain yells. You were talking about a crush before!

So Declan thinks, and revises. Hypothesis: he’s feeling romantic attraction to Logan.

Then he takes a few minutes trying to remember the following step in the scientific method and ends up looking it up on his phone, and it’s really long so he’s just going to cut some corners.

Procedure:

Well, Declan can’t think of any way to do this physically without making an entire fool of himself, so he changes the experiment into a thought experiment.

Procedure: Consider emotions of other relationships and compare to feelings for Logan.

Okay. Declan settles. He considers. He tries to imagine holding hands with Virgil and giving him flowers, but he can’t really picture giving Logan flowers either, so if it’s weird for both -- but he wants to hold Logan’s hand, not Virgil’s, and sometimes Patton’s, and Patton is his brother, he knows for sure his emotions are strictly platonic. So if Patton is the control group, the certainty of platonic emotions, Virgil is the one with normal emotions, and Logan has some weird emotions, so if Virgil and Logan’s are merely two different shades of friendship then Declan will know.

Declan closes his eyes and imagines kissing Logan, because that’s what romantic partners do, right? He imagines stepping closer to him until there’s inches of space between them.. Declan thinks about leaning in, brushing lips before pressing in, heat curling in his chest and oh god, oh god Declan’s face is on fire.

His eyes shoot open and he can only imagine how panicked he must look right now. He presses his hand against his chest, taking deep breaths. Then, reluctantly, he thinks about kissing Virgil -- nope, nope, eugh he physically shakes his head, gut rolling uncomfortably.

So that is a big contender for Declan has romantic feelings for Logan.

He sighs and clunks his head against the door. This sucks. Declan hates feelings.

The door downstairs sounds, opening and closing, followed by a resounding, “HEY, CICI, LOVE YOU!”

Dee sighs, a smile flickering across his face. He pushes to his feet and exits his room, wandering downstairs, aloof.

“Hey Pat,” he says, leaning against a wall.

“Ci, I’m making lots of cookies!” Patton declares, beaming at him, and Declan’s heart drops.

His expression must, too, because Patton’s features are suddenly painted in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I should be asking you that,” Declan says, and he feels bad, unexpectedly, for not replying to Patton’s text earlier. “Lots of cookies? With mint and chocolate chips? Enough to feed an army?”

Patton’s arms wilt and Declan reads the tremor in his shoulders, the glisten of his eyes. Patton tries for a smile and misses by a mile.

Declan crosses to where Patton stands in five steps, wrapping his arms around his smaller brother, pressing his cheek against Patton’s head. “What’s wrong?”

Patton takes a shuddering breath, returning the hug. “Nothing, really. I’m glad you’re home.”

“Ah,” Declan says. He tightens his grip on Patton. “Do you want help?”

“No.” Patton presses his face into Declan’s chest. He’s shaking, ever so slightly. “Can you talk with me at the counter, though?”

“Of course,” Declan agrees, mentally side-tabling his emotional turmoil.

“Okay,” Patton says. He’s quiet for a few more moments, then says, “And Steven Universe later?”

“Anything,” Declan says. He makes a face. The word had slipped out unbidden, but Patton doesn’t tease him for it.

“Alright.” Patton pulls away, takes a breath. “I’m about to make the best damn cookies the world has ever seen.”

“Damn straight,” Declan says, grinning. Patton pauses for just one moment more before moving to the kitchen, dropping various ingredients onto the counter and moving smoothly to gather more.

Declan wonders at his influence on Patton’s vulgar mouth, then shrugs. Patton’s a teenager. He can do what he wants.

“Weren’t you hanging out with Logan?” Patton asks conversationally. He’s pulling down bowls and sugar, obviously expecting easy small talk. And normally Logan is easy for Declan to talk about. He talks about him all the time.

So when Declan winces, Patton turns and addresses him with full attention, brows furrowed. “What? What happened?”

“I…” Declan considers for a moment to just lie about it but dismisses the thought. This is Patton. “I think I have a romantic attraction for him.”

Saying it out loud only cements the certainty in Declan’s chest. No, he hasn’t quite completed the experiment, but he just… knows.

The knowledge is both relieves and spikes his anxiety about the whole situation.

“Oh,” Patton says, eyes wide. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Declan says honestly.

“Alright,” Patton says. He turns back around and a wave of affection flows through Declan. “How did Roman do on his audition?”

Declan hums, eternally grateful for Patton’s ability to turn the conversation away. They talk about Roman’s skill as an actor for a few minutes, jumping to Patton’s involvement in VEX robotics (focusing on the robotics instead of the people) and they kill about forty minutes with Patton talking about his baby bot, Pat Jr.

When the clock strikes seven, Declan throws together two grilled cheese sandwiches and they eat in front of Steven Universe and the gems, Declan stretched out along the couch and Patton creating a throne of blankets for himself.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” Patton murmurs, eyes never straying from the bursts of pastel on the screen, “but if you do have a romantic attraction to Logan it’s okay. You weren’t wrong in saying you’re aromantic. Because that fits you, you like it. There’s just more strings attached than you originally thought.”

Declan blinks, the smallest smile growing on his face. “Thanks, Pat.”

Patton hugs a pillow, eyes bright. “Love you, Ci.”

Declan pushes his foot against Patton’s blanket pile in response.

“Do you think we have to move?” Patton says, three hours into their movie night.

Declan breathes, slowly inhaling as if it gives him an excuse to not reply. “I didn’t. I don’t want to. But probably.”

“That’s why you haven’t told anyone,” Patton says. He shifts, turning to look at Declan. Declan maintains eye contact with the screen, despite having seen this movie countless times. “And why you told me to keep it under wraps.”

“Yes,” Declan says, because really, he lies to the world, but he doesn’t lie to Patton.

He tries not to lie to Patton.

“But something changed yesterday.” Patton’s not asking questions. Somehow, he just knows, despite being left out of the loop. “And you were going to tell Logan today.”

“Yes,” Declan says. Static thrums through his veins. Aladdin ignores a buzzing genie on screen, swatting him away to benefit his own desires.

“What happened?”

“Mom’s not getting out,” Declan says simply, because that’s it, really. Their mother is not getting out of jail. And with no father, their final hope is their uncle, three states over. Their father’s brother.

Two months away from eighteen, and Declan is forced to concede.

��When?” Patton asks. He’s trembling, but he’s not crying. Declan knows that will come later.

“Because of the legal mixups and leaning on Sasha, two weeks, probably,” Declan says. Sasha is, of course, their next door neighbor, the crazy cat lady of the street who “watches” the boys “all the time”.

“Two weeks,” Patton whispers. There’s a sheen in his eyes. Declan tries not to look but his gaze is like a magnet and Patton stares, stares, stares. “That’s not enough time. That’s not…”

Declan closes his eyes.

He really thought he would win.

He thought he could win.

They only had to last two more months. His deadbeat mom had to last two months and they couldn’t even keep the legal proceedings--

He takes a breath. “Uncle Thomas is nice, at least.”

“I don’t want uncle Thomas,” Patton snaps.

“Well we don’t have a choice, Pat,” Declan bites out, stomach rolling at the words, eyes snapping open.

Patton recoils, hurt flickering behind his eyes, but Declan knows it’s not enough to overpower the fire roaring in Patton’s lungs. “We did, we could have put more savings into mom’s defense, we could have found a place to live before it was our last resort but now we have to tell all our friends that we’re moving hundreds of miles away in two weeks!”

“Mom doesn’t deserve to get out,” Declan spits.

“I don’t CARE.” Patton’s fingers are clenched in fists. He stands. “I don’t care if mom deserves it or not. We deserve to stay.”

“The world doesn’t work like that,” Declan says.

Patton opens his mouth and snaps it shut, obviously restraining himself. A thousand emotions swim behind his eyes. Declan hates every single moment but he doesn’t say a word.

He leaves.

He leaves Declan sitting alone on the couch, watching Patton’s favorite movie. A door slams shut and Declan exhales heavily. They don’t get into fights, it’s just not -- Patton’s normally too upbeat to bother, Patton hates being angry, Declan normally doesn’t -- there’s nothing to get angry about, not in the grand scheme of things. They share easily, they have chaotic conversations, they…

They’re fighting.

Declan buries his head in his hands. He was too hopeful, too caught up on the possibility of the future to notice the sinkhole of reality.

He really thought -- things would work out, Patton has his lucky charm of a personality and Declan works, he works hard, so things should -- Declan’s a senior in high school, halfway through the first semester, he should be worried about grades and school dances and friends and crushes and --

Logan.

Declan curls, releasing something like a sob or maybe a dry heave. Whether or not he’s in love with Logan (most signs point to yes but there’s no way Declan’s addressing that) he still loves Logan, he loves being with him and talking to him and ordering his ice cream before Logan gets there to see the surprised and fond expression cross his face.

Two weeks?

To say goodbye to his best friend?

Before moving, before picking up his entire life and his family (just -- Patton. Just Patton) and going somewhere Else?

Declan doesn’t feel like an adult.

He doesn’t want to be an adult, either.

Even if the world is asking him to be one.

“You’re acting strange,” Logan observes.

Declan shrugs. “I’m always strange.” He takes advantage of shoving fries in his face to avoid expounding.

Logan sighs and puts down his burger. “Declan. Something’s going on.”

Several somethings are going on, actually, but thanks. Declan shrugs again. “Haven’t been getting much sleep.” Which is a true statement. He’s written about ten different ways to tell Logan he’s leaving, nine of which are ripped up in the trash, one of which Declan just burned because he doesn’t want even scraps of that disaster to exist.

Five days to go and Declan still hasn’t told him. Five days. They don’t have many classes together, otherwise Logan would have pieced together the weird treatment from the teachers. Declan wonders if just disappearing into the void is an alright way to go, but a little Patton in his head chastises him for even considering it.

Then again, at this rate…

“Hm,” Logan says. He has a thoughtful look on his face that’s absolutely devastating to Declan’s heart and general health and coherence of thought, let alone considering what’s about to come out of his mouth. “Is there a reason?”

Declan considers, eyes narrowing as he stares at nothing. “I neglect to answer that question.”

“So yes,” Logan says. The words fall from his lips with crushing sorrow. He takes a breath. “Why aren’t you telling me?”

“Telling you what?” Declan says, internally wincing at the hurt flickering through Logan’s eyes.

“Okay,” Logan says instead. He turns back to his food.

They eat the rest of the meal in silence.

Declan watches absentmindedly as Logan attempts to make a tower out of pens and pencils. With the addition of Roman’s copious amounts of colored pens, the tower is quite impressive.

Two days.

(Two Days).

Declan’s all packed. Sorta. Not really. He’s going to skip some classes in the future and pack all at once, throwing everything into the boxes (the empty boxes lining his room), not caring if anything breaks.

He…

He hasn’t told Logan yet.

Or anyone, really, but Logan’s the one that -- the one that matters the most.

Logan did, however, ask him if he was okay three times before leaving him be, because Logan knows that Declan becomes testy if asked the same question consistently.

So basically, as far as Declan can figure, Declan’s a tool. Logan is trying, and Declan is giving him jack shit to work with.

Patton has told all his friends, which means it’s only a matter of time before Logan finds out, right? Patton’s a sophomore, they’re seniors, and the school is large, but it’s also not as big as it seems.

Roman, sitting next to him, hums under his breath as he types. He’s editing his college essay, which Declan would be doing if he had a college essay to edit and also cared enough. The atmosphere is strikingly calm, which leads to an anxious buzzing under Declan’s skin.

Tell him. Just tell him. Just open your mouth and tell him. You’re in a library, he can’t get loud and yell.

Declan wonders if yelling would be better, actually, than wide eyed stares and wounded expressions.

He’s contemplating the merits of writing a letter (absolutely not, he doesn’t know why he’s even considering it) when he spots Patton out of the corner of his eye.

Patton in and of himself does not scare Declan.

The fact that he’s bee-lining for Declan and his friends does make him a bit nervous, though.

“Cici,” Patton hisses. The cutesy play on Declan’s middle name sounds odd in such a harsh tone of voice. He glances at Logan before staring at Declan.

Declan’s starkly aware of Roman and Logan’s attention when he says, “yeah?”

“You told them?” Patton says, and Declan--

Well.

A combination of fear and fury and regret zip through his veins at warp speed.

But Declan’s well trained in the art of deception.

He schools his expression into one of cool indifference. “That I’m taking you for ice cream? Nah. I didn’t think they’d care. You wanna go right now?”

Roman huffs a laugh, turning his attention back to his computer. Logan doesn’t look away, though, hand resting on a bright yellow flair pen.

Patton’s brow furrows. “I mean the--”

“Man, if you were that impatient you could’ve texted me,” Declan interrupts with a long, drawn-out sigh. He stands, swinging his backpack over his shoulders. “I’ll see you guys later.”

“Get me some ice cream next time,” Roman says, grinning. His gaze doesn’t leave his screen. “Bye, loser.”

“Bye,” Logan echoes.

Something registers in Declan’s brain-dead skull that Logan sounds lifeless because his best friend has been distant (Declan. Declan is Logan’s best friend).

Declan pauses, sighs. Patton looks outraged and about two seconds from outing Declan.

“I’m sorry,” Declan says. Logan looks up at him. “It’s not your fault. Just… I’m going through some things. You deserve to know. I shouldn’t shadow you without any info.”

Patton looks even angrier, if possible, but then Logan’s talking and Patton hates interrupting people.

“Okay,” Logan says, soft as ever. “I’ll wait for you.”

And if that doesn’t make Declan feel like the nastiest motherfucker.

“Let’s go,” Declan says, pulling Patton along before Patton lets loose.

He opens his mouth, but Declan beats him to it, whispering, “Shh, we’re in a library.”

“I cannot fucking believe you,” Patton hisses instead.

“Language.”

“You haven’t told them?” Patton exclaims. He yanks his wrist from Declan’s grip but continues following him, arms gesturing wildly. “You’re the worst.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Declan mutters.

“You better get me ice cream now,” Patton says, crossing his arms. “After making me watch that.”

“That’s fair,” Declan concedes, and then realizes he’s going to have to spent the next thirty minutes listening to Patton chastise him and --

Honestly, he deserves it, but he doesn’t want it, but before he can say anything, Patton says, “don’t even think about escaping this.”

So he’s stuck listening to Patton chastise him for the next thirty minutes until their next class starts.

But he gets a turtle sundae out of it, so it’s like, at least 20% a win.

“CICI,” Patton screams from the living room.

Declan shoots to his feet, tripping and slamming his knee into the doorframe, scrambling to reach Patton as swiftly as possible. He appears at the edge of the living room, hand pressed against the wall, chest heaving, eyes blown wide. “What? What is it?”

He assesses Patton for damage, but Patton’s standing with his phone clutched between his fingers, shaking ever so slightly but appearing physically fine. He’s staring at Declan, lip trembling.

“Patton?” Declan says.

Patton opens his mouth, tears dripping down his cheeks. He sniffs, making an angry noise in the back of his throat as he wipes at his face. “I shouldn’t tell you! I should let you suffer because you’re mean.”

“Patton,” Declan says, approaching his brother like one might a wild animal.

Patton shakes his head and Declan stops.

“I’m upset!” Patton says. Then he lets out a laugh, choked. “But I’m so relieved.”

Declan doesn’t say anything.

Patton sniffles a few more times, then peeks at Declan through his fingers. Declan tries for a smile, sheepish. Patton smiles back, watery and soft. His shoulders shake as he laughs softly, his phone pressed against his cheek. “I was so scared.”

“Me too,” Declan says.

“I’m sorry,” Patton says, the anger draining from his face and leaving a wide-eyed pile of nerves. “I didn’t mean it. You’re not mean. You’re just scared.”

“It’s okay,” Declan says. His arms hand limply by his sides. He wants to do something with them, to cross his arms or put them in his hoodie pockets or something, but he also wants to leave them available for when Patton wants a hug, so he stands awkwardly instead. “I forgive you.”

“I’ve been calling Uncle Thomas,” Patton says.

Declan’s heart does something funny in his chest.

Patton pulls his hands away from his face, rubbing his cheeks clean, staring at his phone for a few moments before his hand drops, dangling at his side. “He’s -- he said he’s coming here. His job can be done online and the stuff he can’t do online he’ll fly back for which won’t be often, he said it’s important to him that we -- have a support system throughout highschool, and he wants us to finish here before doing anything else.”

The information barely filters through Declan’s mind because when Patton exhales another sob Declan steps forward and envelops him in his arms on instinct. Patton’s legs go weak. Declan sinks to the ground, Patton pressing his face into Declan’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Patton mumbles. “I don’t know why I’m crying. This is good. This is good.”

“Sometimes emotions have a funny way of showing,” Declan says. He runs his fingers through Patton’s hair, untangling the curls. “You’ve been stressed. It’s okay.”

“Why aren’t you crying?” Patton says. He taps his palm against Declan’s chest, reminiscent of a smack without any of the power. “It’s not fair.”

Declan laughs, sort of. “I might later. I don’t know. Emotions are weird.”

“You never told your friends you were moving,” Patton says. “Will they ever find out?”

“Probably,” Declan says. He squeezes Patton. “I know you told your friends. It’s better your way. Even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

“Mm.”

Declan can feel the rise and fall of Patton’s chest. It slows as Patton calms down. “We don’t have to move,” Patton murmurs.

“We don’t have to move,” Declan agrees, and Patton presses even closer.

Declan doesn’t know how he finds his way to the beach but at one point he’s baking Patton cookies and the next he’s sitting on a slab of concrete overlooking the pitch dark waves. He knows Patton is sleeping, or is at least pretending to sleep. He vaguely remembers writing a note in case Patton looks for him.

It’s been three days since Patton discovered Uncle Thomas’s moving plans. Discovered? Convinced? Declan isn’t sure.

And he doesn’t really know how to react. He’s been moving on autopilot, making dinner, doing homework, putting in minimal effort into his friendships so they don’t abandon him on the side of the road --

No. Declan shakes his head. Putting minimal effort into his friendships because his friends don’t deserve to be cut off without a word.

Nothing feels right.

(Something is off).

He hears footsteps and before he can whip around, before fear has the chance to truly take over his body, he hears, “this seat taken?”

“No,” Declan says, and Logan sits next to him on the concrete. They’re quiet for a few moments, watching the reflection of the moon, tasting salt on their tongues.

“Will you tell me what’s going on?” Logan says finally.

Declan closes his eyes, breathes. His emotions are all tangled up in his chest and he doesn’t want to tap into it for fear that if he lets out a little he’ll let out everything.

But Logan deserves to know.

(He deserves someone better.)

“My mom lost,” Declan says, which sounds nicer than it did in his head. “She’s unfit to care for us, anyway, but now she’s officially calling prison her new home.”

Logan’s quiet. Declan listens to his breathing. He spies Logan’s hand against the concrete and longs to close the distance and entangle their fingers, just for a modicum of physical comfort. The slightest hint of warmth permeates the air around Logan and Declan wants to lean closer, to press their arms together.

“My Uncle, on my dad’s side, is taking care of us. He… wasn’t originally going to move here, but Patton talked to him and he decided moving here is the best course of action.” Declan shifts. He doesn’t know how to say it. He doesn’t know how to explain.

Logan stops breathing.

“I almost lost you,” he says, and it’s barely a whisper.

Declan glances at him and can barely comprehend the amount of horror shining in Logan’s eyes. Logan’s staring at him, expression open and terrified. “I almost…” He exhales, shaking. Declan watches him so closely he can see the sticking of his chest as he breathes, the tremor of his shoulders.

Declan’s heart stutters and he wants to tear his gaze away but he owes, he owes Logan this. Even though the only thing he wants to do is run away, to preserve himself. “I -- I never told you,” Declan says, more scared than he has been in a long time. He opens his mouth and stops, shrinking away. He looks over Logan’s shoulder, unable to maintain eye contact. “We were supposed to leave two days ago. I was going to tell you and then…”

Then I found out that I’m in love with you, and it freaked me out so much I closed myself off.

Logan’s truly shaking, and Declan doesn’t know what to do. You caused this. This is your fault.

“Ugh! I’m sorry,” Declan exclaims. He can’t stand this, these tentative moments, fragile as glass. He wants to take a hammer to the whole affair. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not much but I was scared, and it’s not a valid excuse, but I was terrified, Logan, I couldn’t leave you! You mean too much to me!”

“You mean a lot to me too,” Logan says, but Declan’s on a roll, now, there’s no stopping the hurricane in his heart.

He moves his gaze to the waves, finding solace and energy in the constancy. “I was going to tell you when we were hanging out a few weeks ago in your room, and then I freaked out because -- and then I left, and haven’t been able to figure out how to word it since, and Patton’s better than I am, he told his friends almost immediately, imagine, having worse emotional competency than a fifteen year old--”

“Roman found out,” Logan says, grinding Declan’s tangent to a halt. “He mentioned something to me but I needed to hear it from you.”

Declan stares at him.

“I asked Patton if you were at home,” Logan explains. Declan can barely tell in the shadows, but Logan’s face seems to darken. “When he said no, I knew there was one other place you would go. Probably.”

Declan worries his lip. He’s that predictable?

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Logan asks, quiet.

“Because…” Liquid anxiety slogs through his veins. His voice drops, quiet, quieter than the sound of waves. “Because I think I’m in love with you, and I’m terrified.”

For a second all he can hear is the crash of the sea and his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He doesn’t know why the moon isn’t falling from the sky, why the stars haven’t combusted, because his world feels like it’s falling apart at the seams.

“I discovered that,” Declan continues, the words slipping between his lips before his mind has any say in the matter, “and didn’t know what to do, and then I needed to tell you I was leaving, and I love you, and I couldn’t. Because I’m a coward.”

Another beat. Declan takes a long breath. “I still love you. And I’m no longer leaving.”

“I suppose… now would be a bad time to bring up demiromanticism?” Logan tries.

“It would be a terrible time, but thank you,” Declan says, and he can’t help the small puff of laughter that escapes.

“I love you too,” Logan says, then, and Declan can’t breathe.

He turns to Logan without thinking, searching his sapphire blue eyes for deception even though Logan has never, ever lied to him. He can’t hope, he can’t dare to hope, the world would never give him two miracles. “Don’t trick me.”

“I’m in love with you,” Logan clarifies, nervous. His hands are wringing together and he’s biting his lip.

Declan reaches out, fingers trembling, to brush against Logan’s cheek. “You…”

“I’ve been in love with you,” Logan says. He’s looking down, away from Declan’s gaze, but he leans into his touch. “For awhile. I never wanted to bring it up because… you were so adamant about being separate from romance…”

“I thought I was,” Declan says honestly. “Which is why this is a real fucking trip, let me tell you.”

Logan laughs, and some of the tension in the air dissolves. “I can imagine.”

“God, I love you,” Declan says. He brushes his thumb underneath Logan’s eye.

“I love you too,” Logan says, eyes wide and sparkling, then he moves forward and cradles Declan’s head in his hands and Declan short circuits because he’s right there he’s RIGHT THERE and he’s touching him he loves him he loves him--

“You’re gorgeous,” Logan says, and Declan just stares at him dumbly because his mouth stops working. His heart is barely going, the only reason he’s not dead is because his body has some sort of instinctive survival instinct, or something.

Emotion clog his throat and Declan doesn’t know how he’s not sobbing already so he’s unsurprised when the smallest tear slips out of his eye.

“Oh,” Logan says, wiping the tear away. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s -- it’s not -- it’s not you,” Declan chokes out. “God. This is so embarrassing.”

“I don’t care,” Logan says. He leans closer, pressing their foreheads together and staring into Declan’s eyes. “It’s okay to cry.”

Declan smiles thinly, blinking away tears. “I don’t deserve you.”

Logan stares at him, brows furrowing. “What?”

“You’re so beautiful,” Declan says. His trembling hands hold Logan’s jaw. “And you’re so smart and passionate, and you have the most wicked sense of humor, and you’re my best friend.”

“No,” Logan shakes his head. “I mean, I am your best friend, but there’s no deserve in a relationship. We’re just people. People make mistakes. I make mistakes. Please don’t sell yourself short.”

Declan wants to say that only proves how good Logan truly is, but he settles for a simple, “Okay.”

Logan brushes hair out of Declan’s eyes, then sighs, dropping his head to Declan’s shoulder. Declan’s hands slide down to Logan’s upper back.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Declan says.

“I’m glad you’re here too,” Logan replies, muffled. He pulls away for a split second, eyes blurry and a crease already showing from his glasses pressing into his skin. “But if you withhold life-altering information like that from me again there will be issues.”

“I won’t,” Declan says. He swallows. He hates promises. He hates them, because he never feels like he can maintain them. “I’ll… I’ll try my hardest.”

Logan searches his gaze, nods, and then presses fully into Declan.

“Woah, okay.” Declan shifts as Logan clings to him like a koala bear. Logan’s basically in his lap and Declan, well. Declan has no complaints.

“I can do this as much as I want because we’re in love with each other,” Logan mutters, and wow, if that doesn’t send a thousand vibrations across his skin. In love with each other.

Declan grins. He likes the sound of that.

“You know,” Logan says conversationally. His fingers trail up to press against Declan’s face, outlining his lips. “I love it when you smile.”

Declan hums, his smile broadening. Me too, Logan.

Me too.

#im also posting this on ao3 bc this is a MONSTER #loceit #logan sanders #deceit sanders #patton sanders #brotherly moceit #god the dynamics..... so good #roman sanders #virgil sanders #well virgils mentioned hes not actually in it OOPS sorry virge love u #does the ending make sense?? i hope so #deceit: i also love it when i smile thank u logan #<-- incorrect interpretation yet i love it #did someone order some uhhhhh fluff #willowaudreykeyes

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