[No one has ever said that to the Detective Prince and-
No one has ever said that to Akechi Goro. No one talks to Akechi Goro with this degree of sincerity. No one looks at Akechi Goro. No one thinks about Akechi Goro. No one likes Akechi Goro because it's a figment that hasn't existed since his mother's bloated corpse filled his vision.
Akechi can't brush off the words that fill the screen because Maruki only talks to Akechi Goro.
It's a mistake. A brutal one. A betrayal in the shadow of every interaction they have. The words fill his vision like a bruised corpse. They repeat and repeat and repeat and replace the persistent, buzzing static like sensation that fills him from the base of his skull, to the back of his eyes.
He could kill Maruki while he sleeps. It would be kinder. A quiet apartment nestled in the middle of Tokyo. A small home that smells like spices and books. The automatic locks are easy to disengage. A window might be left open - Maruki likes fresh air and light. He wonders if the man forgets to shut if. If cicadas fly into his room and keep him from sleeping. The persistent high pitched chirping will keep him up all night. A monster hidden in the corner of his room. Maybe the night Akechi comes to kill him, Maruki will be wide awake, staring at him with squinted eyes while he stands in the darkened doorway. His glasses are on a stand by the right side of his bed, probably. Not the left. He'll know Akechi immediately, even without the full scope of his vision.
A cicada will be in the apartment, so Akechi can't kill him while he sleeps.
He could kill Maruki on the streets - messier, crueler and without an inch of kindness afforded to him. Maruki likes fresh air and walks. He might live near a bathhouse. He'll probably walk to it, traversing a well worn path with his nose in his cellphone because he likes to be informed. He wonders if the gleam of a pen from a tiny hobby store will catch his eye or if it's books or a poster with a discount dinner in vivid, colorful font. Akechi could sneak up behind him. No Azathoth to buffer the knife twisting into his back. The blade will be sharp because Akechi isn't a cruel man. It will be sharp, slide in and he won't feel it until it's too late.
Maruki wouldn't see him right away, but his phone will drop - clatter and hit pavement. The battery will fall out because Maruki's smartphone isn't the latest model like Akechi's. He'll turn to fight off the pain in his spine. Maybe he'll think it's something Venat can fix. Venat could fix it. Venat could kill him with that blooming power of hers. She could kill Akechi and save Maruki. A part of him wants her to, in that moment, in that thought, with that sensation of his hands pressed into his back, this time to rip him apart instead of mend him.
The poster will catch his eye again. It's tempura udon. They were supposed to have it that night. Akechi was supposed to wait until afterwards to allow the man a final meal. A final kindness. He doesn't. Akechi doesn't know why.
A colorful, vivid sign will be on a window, so Akechi can't kill him on the street.
Maruki praises him for accepting consequences. He won't forget. He'll never forget. The words will twist around his heart like a rotten vine until barbs rip it to pieces. He won't forget. He'll never forget. He can't forget and-
It's the kindest thing Akechi can do, maybe, to accept the consequences from someone who praised him for it. Akechi's fingers will latch around Maruki's throat, while his glasses are clean and clear. He wipes them right after dinner. The steam fogs them up. He'll wipe the clouds from his vision with a cloth meant for it, instead of the cuff of his sleeve. Ever prepared, ever organized.
They'll sit in the living room for awhile, talking. Akechi's a professional. A performer. Nothing will stop him from trying to coax out every last word from this man's throat - a final gift. A jagarico pack. A plate of sushi. Phrases, teases, gentle coaxing and laughter - Akechi will listen, hear it, remember.
He'll turn every single word into a red thread that will wrap around his lungs because he won't be able to breathe. He can't breath now. He hasn't in awhile. Maruki won't tell him to leave - he never does. He won't then. Especially then. It'll be late and Akechi will be offered a couch - blankets, pillows ready on the corners because Maruki is prepared. Akechi is allowed. Akechi will press his palms into the barbs around his heart until nothing's left.
Maruki will walk over to him and-
Pat his head and-
Akechi will return the favor with deft precision, with an act, with the truth. He won't look away. Won't pretend it's Shido. Wouldn't dare sully the image of someone who offered these soft bits of praise to a killer, liar, murderer and-
Akechi will tell him it's his fault, while his face is peppered with spots of blue. It's his fault. It's Akechi's fault. There's no one left.
He can't breathe and-
The air is cold. It's hot. He inhales too deep, too shallow. There's an indent in his forehead from the phone pressed against it. It hurts. He doesn't stop. He's breathing and it doesn't matter.
Bright lines. Vivid spots. The ground is coated in bubbles he has to blink away. It doesn't matter. This doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Shido matters. Shido matters. Shido matters because-
Every death staining his hands will be one more way he kills Shido. Every piece of Akechi ripped to shreds will be returned tenfold. Maruki will die and Akechi will bring him back with the pieces of Shido he scratches free from a bloated corpse. Maruki will die and Akechi will pull all these words from his heart to listen to when his vision's stained red, red, red and he wins.
Maruki will be there when he wins because Akechi wants him to be.]
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1/2 cw: suicide, murder, violent thoughts, descriptive violence
No one has ever said that to Akechi Goro. No one talks to Akechi Goro with this degree of sincerity. No one looks at Akechi Goro. No one thinks about Akechi Goro. No one likes Akechi Goro because it's a figment that hasn't existed since his mother's bloated corpse filled his vision.
Akechi can't brush off the words that fill the screen because Maruki only talks to Akechi Goro.
It's a mistake. A brutal one. A betrayal in the shadow of every interaction they have. The words fill his vision like a bruised corpse. They repeat and repeat and repeat and replace the persistent, buzzing static like sensation that fills him from the base of his skull, to the back of his eyes.
He could kill Maruki while he sleeps. It would be kinder. A quiet apartment nestled in the middle of Tokyo. A small home that smells like spices and books. The automatic locks are easy to disengage. A window might be left open - Maruki likes fresh air and light. He wonders if the man forgets to shut if. If cicadas fly into his room and keep him from sleeping. The persistent high pitched chirping will keep him up all night. A monster hidden in the corner of his room. Maybe the night Akechi comes to kill him, Maruki will be wide awake, staring at him with squinted eyes while he stands in the darkened doorway. His glasses are on a stand by the right side of his bed, probably. Not the left. He'll know Akechi immediately, even without the full scope of his vision.
A cicada will be in the apartment, so Akechi can't kill him while he sleeps.
He could kill Maruki on the streets - messier, crueler and without an inch of kindness afforded to him. Maruki likes fresh air and walks. He might live near a bathhouse. He'll probably walk to it, traversing a well worn path with his nose in his cellphone because he likes to be informed. He wonders if the gleam of a pen from a tiny hobby store will catch his eye or if it's books or a poster with a discount dinner in vivid, colorful font. Akechi could sneak up behind him. No Azathoth to buffer the knife twisting into his back. The blade will be sharp because Akechi isn't a cruel man. It will be sharp, slide in and he won't feel it until it's too late.
Maruki wouldn't see him right away, but his phone will drop - clatter and hit pavement. The battery will fall out because Maruki's smartphone isn't the latest model like Akechi's. He'll turn to fight off the pain in his spine. Maybe he'll think it's something Venat can fix. Venat could fix it. Venat could kill him with that blooming power of hers. She could kill Akechi and save Maruki. A part of him wants her to, in that moment, in that thought, with that sensation of his hands pressed into his back, this time to rip him apart instead of mend him.
The poster will catch his eye again. It's tempura udon. They were supposed to have it that night. Akechi was supposed to wait until afterwards to allow the man a final meal. A final kindness. He doesn't. Akechi doesn't know why.
A colorful, vivid sign will be on a window, so Akechi can't kill him on the street.
Maruki praises him for accepting consequences. He won't forget. He'll never forget. The words will twist around his heart like a rotten vine until barbs rip it to pieces. He won't forget. He'll never forget. He can't forget and-
It's the kindest thing Akechi can do, maybe, to accept the consequences from someone who praised him for it. Akechi's fingers will latch around Maruki's throat, while his glasses are clean and clear. He wipes them right after dinner. The steam fogs them up. He'll wipe the clouds from his vision with a cloth meant for it, instead of the cuff of his sleeve. Ever prepared, ever organized.
They'll sit in the living room for awhile, talking. Akechi's a professional. A performer. Nothing will stop him from trying to coax out every last word from this man's throat - a final gift. A jagarico pack. A plate of sushi. Phrases, teases, gentle coaxing and laughter - Akechi will listen, hear it, remember.
He'll turn every single word into a red thread that will wrap around his lungs because he won't be able to breathe. He can't breath now. He hasn't in awhile. Maruki won't tell him to leave - he never does. He won't then. Especially then. It'll be late and Akechi will be offered a couch - blankets, pillows ready on the corners because Maruki is prepared. Akechi is allowed. Akechi will press his palms into the barbs around his heart until nothing's left.
Maruki will walk over to him and-
Pat his head and-
Akechi will return the favor with deft precision, with an act, with the truth. He won't look away. Won't pretend it's Shido. Wouldn't dare sully the image of someone who offered these soft bits of praise to a killer, liar, murderer and-
Akechi will tell him it's his fault, while his face is peppered with spots of blue. It's his fault. It's Akechi's fault. There's no one left.
He can't breathe and-
The air is cold. It's hot. He inhales too deep, too shallow. There's an indent in his forehead from the phone pressed against it. It hurts. He doesn't stop. He's breathing and it doesn't matter.
Bright lines. Vivid spots. The ground is coated in bubbles he has to blink away. It doesn't matter. This doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Shido matters. Shido matters. Shido matters because-
Every death staining his hands will be one more way he kills Shido. Every piece of Akechi ripped to shreds will be returned tenfold. Maruki will die and Akechi will bring him back with the pieces of Shido he scratches free from a bloated corpse. Maruki will die and Akechi will pull all these words from his heart to listen to when his vision's stained red, red, red and he wins.
Maruki will be there when he wins because Akechi wants him to be.]