[The original topic is long lost to a barrage of colorful words Akechi can't remember being in his original vocabulary a few years ago. They appear with him, only ever with him, and it's maddening that every part of him unravels with the bitter declarations slung from both sides. In lieu of personas, they fight with wicked tongues, and it's an unrelenting, unspoken rule that neither gives in. They never give in. They don't stop until throats are raw and exhaustion creeps into their bones - they don't stop until there's nothing left to give. Until-
Morning, that is, when Akira will apologize in a way that almost starts a second fight because Akechi knows he's the one casts first stones, even if Akira throws boulders in return.
Monday was calm. Tuesday was tense. Wednesday is brutal.
Brutal in the way that makes Akechi want to rip the hair of his own scalp in frustration. A temptation he barely placates with the thought of ripping out Akira's hair instead. Instead they're threaded through the his own wet strands, clenching and unclenching while he paces around the living room. Caged. Frustrated.
Fuck Akira Kurusu for ever entering his life. For having the audacity to move in. For every unwanted mercy, every shitty half assed apology and every stupid fucking coffee he's brewed as a truce.]
Fuck you.
[Venom spat out - the number of times reaching double digits by the way the upstairs neighbor starts to pound on the floor to get them to shut up. Fuck them too. He throws his arms up frustration towards the ceiling, like he can intimidate the elderly couple through the thin plaster ceiling.
But the focus of his ire enraptures his attention without a single word because he knows there's wrath brewing in that smoky vision. The one benefit to his own racing heart is knowing he's pissing off Akira in the same way. Knows that the mask on his face is as thinly veiled as his own righteous, benevolent one used to be. Knows that he's dragging the illustrious, amazing, composed leader down to his level - pulling him into the same muk. Dirtying up that pristine image of a gentleman thief.
There are holes in Akira's shirt. Some in Akechi's own. From normal wear and-
Fingers clenched tight to push and pull, ripping tearing destroying because it's what they do best together. Akechi holds matches. Akira lights them. They both pay for it in the explosion and neither one learns to play away from fire.
There's a new rip on the side of Akira's shirt from when Akechi lunged at him earlier. His fingers trace the tears at the bottom of his own plain blue tee from when he fought back. He misses the day when battle scars were temporary - when they tore across flesh and bone instead of his limited wardrobe]
Wow, what a face! If only your pathetic piece of shit friends could see that look on you. Truly, it's quite disgusting. Aren't you supposed to be the composed one? Supposed to know the right thing to say to calm this down? What an exceptional goddamn job you're doing, Joker.
[Akira's eyes flash, sharp as a knife as his voice cracks like a whip in turn, Joker-deep.]
Don't talk about them like that.
[He knows that Akechi is bringing them up to dig at his weak point, knows that he's falling right into the trap, but he can't help it anyway. He loves them too much, they're the biggest weak point he has (aside from, ironically, the person in this room using them like so much bait). After needling each other in this argument for what, an hour? Almost two? He may have lost count, but he still knows Akechi is going for all the low blows he can, and he's tragically soft enough to still get hurt by it.
It hurts so much that it makes him angry, even when he knows he shouldn't be, knows he should calm down and apologize for all of the things regardless of whether or not they're his fault. He can't hear the reason over the way it makes his blood boil, over and over until the moment he opens his mouth, Akira already knows he's stumbling over the point of no return.
Composed? Calm? How is he supposed to be any of that when even after all the relief of having him back in his life, all Akechi ever does is-]
You're acting far too proud for someone throwing a tantrum like a child. [In a movement that's quick but devoid of Akira's usual grace, he grabs him by the wrist and looks at his palm with an expression that would be bored if it wasn't so absolutely scathing.] Tell me, Akechi. Does it feel that good to lash out so thoughtlessly? Is it that enticing to charge through without a care for what your words do to you or anyone else?
[From a distance, Akira can feel the sane part of himself try to reign in the wild feeling in his chest before he says something terrible, something he knows that he'd regret... But he doesn't want to listen to it. Not right now.
Both of them are hypocrites, because Akira is snapping back at him, too.]
[There's a manic edge to the laugh that crosses his lips. He won.
Because yes it feels good to lash out and yes it's enticing to charge, to corrupt, to destroy these golden idols. It's enthralling to rip someone to their core and drag them to a place they think they're too good for. That they can't fall too.
Yes, Akechi is happy to see that perfect leader's calm guise fall apart, to have heat wrap around his wrist, and to match those steps with ones of his own. Devious. All guile and twisted smirks as the tantrum comment sinks into the background, a comment to hold onto for later. Something to use when his ire begins to weaken, when Akira gains ground.]
They make you so weak. Really? That's all it takes? A comment about those lackeys?
[There's a sardonic, almost calm, tone to his voice. Strung. Confined. Imprisoned and unable to pace, so he closes that distance. Eye to eye, victor to loser. His free hand grips Akira's free wrist in a vice, pressing fingertips deep into his flesh against his pulse.
Attacks against Akira don't work. Attacks against the people he cares about does. Always does. Pathetic. Weak. Stupid. He wields the topic like a sword in Mementos, slashes and crashes it against Akira until he turns into the licks of fog that used to be crush crush crush under his heel.]
Tell me, Kurusu-
[Mocking. Angry. So fucking angry. Moves closer, chest pressed against chest and-
He tightens his grip on his wrist - tighter and tighter and tighter until he can feel a rapid pulse in the middle of his palm.]
Does it feel good to know they're nothing without you? Do you get a kick out of it? Is it that enticing to have a little entourage of your own, following you at your every beck and call?
[His fingers tighten and release reflexively on Akechi's wrist, Kurusu and lackeys and nothing digging under his skin and burning, burning, burning.
It's about three centimeters, if he's eyeballing it right.
Three centimeters to thrust his forehead directly into Akechi's, crack both of their temples and send blood gushing down. He could do it now, more easily than he'd like to admit, and the only reason he doesn't is that Akira knows he'll hate himself for it in the morning. Even when his control is frayed, there's lines he won't cross.
But he knows there's something wrong with him, too, because there's worse ones that he'll leap right over.]
I wonder which one it is.
[His hand tightens but this time, it's on purpose and doesn't let up. His voice is quiet but not like normal, something dangerous lurking under the surface, and he already knows he's about to say something that he'll regret.]
Are you just willfully obtuse, or are you not smart about feelings because you spent too long with your head buried in books?
[It's a slap to himself, too, even if Akechi doesn't know that part. There isn't much to talk about from his childhood, and even less that Akira would like to think about, but he plays those cards closer to the chest than anything else.]
Let me spell it out for you, then. I'm the one that's nothing without them. [He practically hisses it out, shoving his chest against him hard, eyes Awakening-angry and the suggestion of nails biting at Akechi's skin. Stop. He has to stop. Don't do this.] I am weak, and they're the ones that fill up everything inside me that's empty.
[The mirror that reflects everything back, that has nothing of its own merit. All the goodness and kindness and warmth that he absorbs, tries to reflect back out because they make him want to be someone good and kind. He's a leader because they needed one. He's strong because they made him so. Kurusu Akira is whoever they need him to be, so many masks that in his darkest moments, sometimes he's afraid he'll lose track of who he really is.
And the one person who Akira never questions who he is with...
He wonders why they do this, sometimes. Does Akechi just hate him that much? Why did he agree to live with him if he does? Is it just an extension of the deal, or are his feelings simply that messed up that he has to push someone away the closer they get?
Akechi brings out his realest self. He brings out all of his good, and all of his bad, and right now just reminds Akira of something that he already knew far too well, all the way back when he knew he wouldn't care if Kamoshida died - it reminds Akira that he's a terrible person and always has been.]
So don't you dare bring them into this when they're better people than you or I will ever be.
[The verbal attack is another victory, a split second reaction to not smart about feelings visible in the way his eyes scrunch, lips twitch, a moment of his mocking smile gone before it returns with equal power. Spoken as if he didn't spend his youth cultivating his image to fit that picture perfect vision society wanted. As if he didn't learn to clench his jaw instead of lashing out, didn't exploit the emotions of those around him. He knows about feelings.
And he knows about Akira Kurusu.
Those sycophants are not better than him - they're nothing and-
They're something because there's truth in that strength that goes beyond the raw power of teaming up. It's in bonds and personas and enhanced abilities that reach impossible lengths. That rip apart the past and create a future ripped from the seems, reshaping even the most intimate parts of the psyche. Hereward was proof of that.]
How insulting-
[Is what he settles on - the pounding on the ceiling above them enough of an annoyance that Akechi's voice settles into a soft anger, his head tilting up to eat up every twist in Akira's expression, every barely held together tremble, every hint of something uncontained coming out in those sharp stings against his wrist.]
To hear my rival say that kind of shit. Do you remember why I hate you so much?
[The problem with a taut emotional thread is when it slacks, it falls. It crumbles. Collapses and tangles. It's reined in - fast, tight and instantaneous on his own, among thralls of people who don't give a shit. But there's a comfort in letting those threads stay loose, drop lower, keep slack surrounded by a shield of four walls and an unrelenting roommate.
Much like everything else in this fucking home, he doesn't know when it happened.
Doesn't know why his lips got so close in a way that's becoming common, hot breath so warm against his face. He wants to soak up this anger and wrath like fuel. Can't help to inch closer to those bitter words incited, meant for him and only him.
When he speaks again, he feels Akira's lips under his - ghosting words that fell loose with that unraveled thread.]
I hate you for your strength and how you handle everything around you - that's something that's only yours. The way you utilize people to get them on your side. How effortless it is. Sakamoto couldn't do that. Nijima couldn't do that. None of them could manage it. Without you, they unravel. You bind them. You draw them in over and over and over. People with no common thread between them brought together. United.
[Jealousy creeps in along with Akechi's fingers, loosened from his bruising grip and trailing up his arm. All reactions. Rapid. Furious and calm. Imprisoned, but not by the vice grip on his wrist. Special. Always special. Blessed by an entity to be special in a way that made all Akechi's efforts look like a mockery. ]
The only weak part of you is your sentimental bullshit.
[The heat of Akechi's lips and the pain of hearing I hate you - one is expected while one is new, and both would normally be enough to give him pause. Even now, it does a little. Makes him hesitate for just a second. On any other day they would burn, they would inflame, and it would be for entirely polar opposite reasons.
With his thoughts already consumed by furious flames, it's only a blip on the radar right now.]
That's the farthest thing from true. [Hazily, like it's happening to someone else, Akira thinks he feels the skin of Akechi's lips catch against his own, one or both of them just a little too dry. It's not as tangible as the anger, so it doesn't get a spotlight in his thoughts.] It's the only fault I have that you focus on, because it's the worst thing of all to you.
[He does not say, "You don't know what it feels like," because that's yet another line that's too much, that Akira won't cross even here at the edge of what he can stand. The pain of feeling empty, an upbringing that was too lonely, the efforts he made for his whole entire life to be a good son that went ignored and then thrown into his face the one time it really mattered - his pain is incomparable to Akechi, or any of his other friends. His suffering doesn't mattered compared to the depths of what they've gone through, and it never will, and no anger Akira ever feels will change that.
He presses Akechi into the wall, grip unrelenting and eyes dagger-bright as he presses his forehead tight against him, incidentally banishing the violent impulses out of his brain as he does. Regardless of what's fair or right, that anger's still there. It's only being reared in a different direction now because of the thing Akechi just said that he can't stand.]
The real bullshit here is that you'd say that to my face, like you aren't just as capable. Like the reason you couldn't come out on top isn't because you had every damn odd stacked against you.
[Akira's so mad, he's so mad, at first he thinks maybe he didn't banish it quite enough, he's about to do or say something so terrible that Akechi will leave, he'll leave and never come back and Akira will never forgive himself for it either-
It's not what happens. Arguably, something worse happens.
He opens his mouth to speak, and his voice comes out shaking.]
You act like it wasn't incredible that you did all of that alone, with the world and a god out to kill you. You say that like if things hadn't been different, if our starting places on the board had been switched, you couldn't have brought people together and been amazing and shone just as bright. You say it like you aren't already-
[He breaks off. But Akechi can read him so well, he has to wonder if the words aren't already hanging there in his eyes, more open windows than they've ever been to everything he tries to bury and crush on a daily basis so as not to destroy the status quo.
Like you aren't already everything to me.
Like I didn't almost destroy reality for you.
Like I wouldn't follow you anywhere, even if I had to drag you right out of hell to bring you home.
Heartbeat thudding in his ears, the shock of his own words makes it so he can almost feel Akechi's lips. He wonders if Akechi has always known, just like they aren't saying anything in here that the other doesn't know, and if he hates it every day the same way he hates Akira's sentimentality.
And if he does know... he wonders what makes him stay, and if he'll finally break apart whatever that is tonight.]
[Lapped up, heat captured with every breath coming from Akira's volatile words. The constant win every time he pushes those buttons, makes it worse for Akira, makes it better for him because-
His spine makes contact with the wall, his rival's body close and unrelenting, grip tight enough to cut off circulation. Grip wild enough to show his victory and-
He laughs, lips contorting into a twisted snarl because it doesn't matter what he says now. Every word meaningless meaningless, meaningless in the wake of those eyes. They're going to fight, he wants to fight, this is a fight and-
In Mementos, under the pulsing walls and whispers closer to static than human, he remembers the moment he lost. How he felt on the cusp of victory, to have it pulled out from under his feet with a deft handling of persona, a practiced slash of knives, dodges and counters that put every distorted heart Akechi had charged through to shame.
Every ruler could combine into a single entity - fight him with everything at once. Mementos could join with its legions of enemies and-
They would never compare to Akira Kurusu.
He remembers a slip of his heel, how his own persona ached in his chest to be released, how Robin Hood faltered in the wake of an unstoppable force. Remembers how his pounding heart begged to unleash everything, how his staggered breath felt when he saw red, red, red every time his eyes would settle on his rival.
It happens again-
You act like it wasn't incredible is met with a hushed stop. ...if things hadn't been different with a louder stop and have brought people together and been amazing and shone just as bright with a louder and louderstop because-
He wasn't prepared for Kurusu to be this talented of a liar - one more well practiced skill where Akechi comes second place.
But then he does stop and Akechi knows it's not because of his increasing protests. He stops because those lingering words make his own fingers dig into the soft flesh of Akira's arm, make him-
Short circuit. Something's wrong with him. Everything's wrong with him. With the both of them. There's something there and Akechi can't place it - too foreign, too horrific, too close to being said. It can't be said. It won't be said because Akira has talent in twisting words, but he doesn't know wield it in full. Doesn't understand how long you need to practice before you feel nothing from them.
Because Akira lies and he still feels something - it shines bright in the little bit of Joker in the corner of his eyes, defined in the harsh lines on his face, in the-
Softness of his lips - a line breached and crossed in quick succession.]
Shut up.
[Is all he can whisper against them, in between a new type of frenzy. In an unyielding pressure, amateurish and wild, pulling free of containment to press against Akira's lips again, again, again in a frenzied flurry of peppered kisses becoming harsher with each contact. Because he can still fix it.
[The first press of lips obliterates every word held in his mouth; the second obliterates the evenness of his breathing; and the third obliterates every thought in his head.
He would've thought he was dreaming, if not for the bite of Akechi's teeth on the next kiss, and it's what startles him into action.
He's dreamt of this so often. Daydreams, wet dreams, something always a little softer than this because fantasies meant he could have whatever sweet dreams he wanted - of Akechi being a better person or Akira being a worse person, instead of meeting in the middle like in reality. Still always passionate, still always a battle, because even the most fanciful thoughts would be unsatisfying if neither of them acted like themselves.
In real life, it hurts. It's bitter and angry and grieved, it's full of fear and trepidation because if he lets out too much sentimentality it'll make Akechi leave for sure, and his chest hurts so much he thinks it'll explode-
-and it's everything, everything that Akira could've ever wanted. Because it's him and it's Akechi and it's real, and they're broken beyond repair and maybe about to break their lives too, but Akira can feel his heart beating against his own chest and it's real.
So Akira answers the stones of his peppered kisses, and answers with a boulder in return - he slams Akechi into the wall and kisses him back.
Objectively, it's certainly not his first, but this is probably one of the worst kisses Akira's ever given - it must be too raw and painful to feel good, he makes a noise like a wounded animal as he parts his lips because it feels like he's being stabbed through the chest, and it's going to become salty very quickly if the tears behind his closed eyes spill where it's safe from Akechi's sight.
And yet, it's still the best he's ever had.
His hand is a claw at Akechi's shoulder, not because he wants to mark him necessarily, but because he doesn't know what else to do but hold on, mark his place, keep Akechi right here with the dig of Akira's nails leaving welts and the weight of his front pinning him to the wall. Maybe it'll make it enough to weigh more than his hate.
He searches for Akechi's tongue, breathes desperately through his nose, and tries not to think about the heat and want starting to swirl through his gut. He has to put a stop to it, but that's impossible when everything he's wanted for two years is digging its teeth into everything of Akira it can reach. He should let go, at least pull his hips back before something gets obvious, but he doesn't. Can't. Won't.
Akira's afraid of what's going to happen to him when - not if, because he can't have that much hope, so when he has to look at Akechi's back when he walks away. He doesn't want to find out all the new ways he's going to break apart. So he holds on tight, and kisses him back as hard as he can, and fruitlessly tries to stuff all of his desire as deep down as it can go while it spills out between his fingers.]
Was inevitable. This. He's felt it in lingering gazes, in tense standoffs, in quiet afternoons and volatile evenings.
Even so, Akechi never thought Akira would be this stupid - to meet his once enemy's lips with such vigorous intent. It doesn't matter they live in uneasy tandem and aligning orbits - that past remains, clear and brittle. A source of ire between them and a way to spurn rivalries in other areas of their shared lives.
He's pressed into a wall and doesn't feel trapped. A sting against his shoulder. Sloppy, pained rage subdued and smothered with lips that muffle words.
Akira's an idiot. Akechi's a bigger one. He meant to end the shit spewing from his mouth with an act that would-
Disgust him, maybe. Frustrate him. Choke the words from this throat without fingers and palms and ignore-
That he's thought about this body pressing him down until every bit of air and thought is gagged out. Ignore a wandering mind that followed him like a shadow into his room, straddling his hips tight under his body, force attention on him and him alone. Hidden pieces of Akira unraveled for his eyes and ears.
It doesn't hurt. It's not unpleasant, because it's Akira. There's no perfection between them. Gets messier the closer they get.
His hand moves up to tangle into his hair - pressing him closer, deeper, allowing himself to be found just to attack his mouth in return. He wants to suffocate. Be suffocated. Survival instincts ignored for as long as he can, until he has to break free with a deep inhale. A turn to the side. Lips feel swollen, and that's fine. If he looks at Akira he's sure-
Of nothing, in this moment.
His grip stays twisted in those locks of black hair, tightening against the base of his skull. Hears nothing outside of his own stammered breathing forced back into compliance. Takes a second to readjust, reframe, reassess.
He says nothing. Doesn't move. Doesn't check Akira's face. Doesn't turn his gaze from the freckled stain against the bottom of the wall. It reminds him of spilled coffee. Akira probably did it, mindlessly wandering around the apartment.
They have a lease - that's a fine and he's annoyed.
A tongue runs over his lips - unintentional and soothing before his eyes lock back with Akira's. Frenzied. Intense. Chin tilting up to maintain some semblance of visual control.]
We share this space.
[As if that explains everything happening and is more than a mindless, hazy assessment of their living situation. The wall behind him pure ice, the body in front of him lava - his own body getting hard against friction.]
We're going to your room, not mine.
i wasn't even supposed to do this rn but i read it again from bed and ran to my computer possessed
[At first, Akira hears we share this space and thinks that it's already happening and Akechi is about to leave or kick him out. The venue is there, an easy windup for all the ways that Akira has ruined their life here, defiled it, disgusted him-
But, it isn't what's happening.
Akira's breaths go still in his chest for an eternal second.
It slides through his brain like treacle that he's hard, strained against his sweatpants, and on the other side of the fabric is another layer of cloth and Akechi's own hardness pressed against him. His heartbeat is so loud in his ears, warring for first place with the cacophony of his thoughts loudly trying to reject what his heart has desired for so long.
He knows what it means, what Akechi's implying. Akira isn't a virgin, even if it'll be the first time anything's happened in that room outside of masturbation.
He's had sex precisely three times since starting college, each one an increasingly more desperate attempt to get over the feelings choking him like a never-ending poison, but never in this apartment. He'd never sully their shared space with it, not in any one of these rooms. Three times, to see if the third would be the charm, to see if he could finally move on and be to Akechi who he was supposed to be - someone that was safe to hate, safe to be a rival to, and maybe sometimes could be considered a friend.
In the moment that he'd felt the heat of his former classmate's come through the condom, somehow he'd known. He'd known, laying there and panting up at that unfamiliar ceiling, that that would be the last time and the complicated feeling in his chest was something he could never uproot. He had completely and unequivocally known that there was something deeply wrong with him, something far beyond his usual and forecasted brokenness, that he would reject the comfort of someone that liked him just enough and instead choose the excruciatingly painful uncertainty of a maybe that would never happen.
Akira had showered, cleaned himself up and come home, made dinner and sat across from his roommate like everything was normal. And in the afternoon of that following day, the moment he made sure their apartment was empty, he'd cried harder than he ever had in his entire life.
He'd thought he finally understood what it felt like to have his heart break.
It feels unreal that now, having buried and grieved for the impossible, that he can be feeling Akechi's erection against his own, hot and firm and real. He doesn't dare wish for more, knows that accepting Akechi into his room and therefore his bed will shatter him in new ways when he's inevitably left alone in it. He knows the right thing is to say no, so that maybe he can still look him in the face tomorrow and watch Akechi's eyebrows crease down in that familiar way when he accepts the apology coffee Akira always makes.
And yet, what he says is-]
Okay.
[It's whispered between their mouths, as tiny and quiet and loud as a thunderclap, reverberates up through his spine. Akira grabs at his sleeve the same way he does when he wants to get Akechi's attention but can't meet his eyes for some reason, and gently tugs him away from the wall. It feels so many leagues away from the fierce kissing, as fraught as a fight, that he'd think he was watching a video of himself if the realness of it wasn't making him tremble ever so slightly, impossible to suppress.
He hasn't had a mask up in so long, Akira can't help but wonder what kind of expression he's making as he stares at Akechi's near-crazed eyes. He wonders if it's as fragile as he feels right now.
His heartbeats are so, so loud.
If he isn't going to say something combative, he should at least say something- teasing, at least as flirty as their norm, or something halfway sexy, but what comes out is a still-too-quiet-]
I only have lube in there.
[It spirals hot down his neck, hopefully not to his face, saying what he means without actually saying it. Practical, but embarrassing and still probably fragile. For himself or for a partner, he'd never planned on needing any condoms ever again. Maybe it'll ward him off, somehow. Maybe Akechi is the type of person that hates not using any, or maybe he'll think that Akira is the type of person that sleeps around carelessly and shouldn't be touched that way.
If Akechi leaves on his own terms before they go too far, maybe Akira can still find a way to pick himself up off the ground.]
im losing my mind don't look at the timestamp in this essay
[The air stills with that matter of fact statement, a tug of his sleeve.
Kurusu Akira - leader of the Phantom Thieves, a man that steals hearts and heals souls, who defies gods and rips apart centuries old legacies with words sharpened from injustice, a cruel world, a pathetic reality meant to exploit-
Only has lube in there.
A reminder that above all else Kurusu Akira is infallibly human, and it's why Akechi Goro hates him in the deepest recesses of his heart.
They move forward, as always. Every step makes his body feel like lead and air in equal measure. Red tinting the base of his own neck - irritation at his roommate, embarrassment at the fucking topic at hand, knowledge his own lack of experience will show to a rival he can never lose to.]
Then that's what we'll use.
[It's
sitting in a room, in the fading remnants of a true reality. The hinges impossible to see. Frayed threads invisible, no matter how tight they wind their fingers around it, no matter how much they pull, pull, pull back.
They're in a room -
Taking stock of items, supplies - 'That's what we'll use' a statement made over the questionable pills from a doctor almost disbarred. Someone Akira trusts with his life, trusts the lives of others to, so Akechi puts the barest amount of faith in it.
Preparing for battle - it's all the same with them. Always the same. Always a fight.
Tone steady, voice low - unintentional, air filling depleted lungs, mouth sore.]
Stop making me wait - I don't have the patience for a conversation right now.
[Because
He's greedy. Wants for everything, yearns for nothing, craves a world that was never his and-
Wants to steal it. Wants to take him. Wants that creeping red to flow up - a path he follows with the fingertips resting on the back of Akira's neck.
A threat, maybe, in his palm - fingers light across his skin, all the way up to his hairline. It could change in an instant - Akechi almost does it. Wants to see. Wants to watch. A constant, moving line that Akira pulls forward, every time Akechi crosses it.
A bullet to the skull. Fingers around his neck. Stolen breath that he wants to feel against his own lips.]
Move.
i can't look at the timestamp because i can't read 👌
[An "okay" lodges its way in his throat, stuck, tied there with the force of Akira's wanting and translating into a single, simple nod. Okay. It's time to move.
However... It finally isn't nerves, or yearning, or longing that make him silent.
It's the Then that's what we'll use, a flintstone's spark that lights up his brain, makes him move again, be a person again that isn't silently mourning his own broken heart as he lives in the place that will drive the fissures deepest. It's the reminder of safe rooms, of Joker, who he was and who he has always been and will be again. It's them, him and Akechi, drawn into their own orbits as they have perpetually been for nearing a decade.
He knows this person across from him intimately in all ways but one. He knows how his mind works, how his body moves, the differences of his breaths outside but tense around strangers and at ease at Jazz Jin and the odd blend of sharp and relaxed that he has in their own shared space. He left his imprint upon him as a boy, and has been with him for nearly every step of being a man.
Akechi knows him at his best, his worst, his most magnificent and his most horrible. With Akechi, he can be kind, or steel, or gentle, or sharp. He can be the terrible person he truly is, even as he lives every day trying so hard to be a good one. Akira can trust him with his back, his throat, his heart, knowing full well that he could slice open every single one til his life is spent. He is the only one that Akira can show himself unmasked, as petrifying as it feels even with him.
If he breaks at the end of it all, he will break. He's already placed himself in those hands a long time ago. He will face it.
Move, Kurusu Akira.
He does, grace restored, sinewy and smooth as he practically glides in the direction of his bedroom. The soft way he pulls Akechi along probably irritates him, but Akira feels distant from it. He feels distant from his body itself, though he's still somehow aware of how quickly his heart is beating and the dull ache at the apex of his thighs.
There's no room for him to feel weak or empty. Not right now.
It's not until they've breached the barrier of his room that he releases Akechi from that familiar hold, the way he has so many times before; there's even the hints of satisfaction left over in his steps, as if now too he's finished telling him whatever needed to be said. He doesn't turn around as he rifles through the drawer, careful not to knock into the other solid objects under his underwear.
Akira still needs some secrets, after all, and Akechi doesn't really need to know about any of his sex toys... or how much use they've gotten.
The moment his hands are on the bottle - half-empty, but more than enough for this - he turns to toss it on the bed with a simple flick of his wrist. It lands up near the top, almost perfectly in reach for grabbing when it's needed. And then he's near still again, only moving to tilt his head to the side as he considers Akechi with silent eyes. Weighs the tension in his body.
Weighs the wildness of his gaze, the impatience of his words, and lets heat pool hotter in his belly.
Without a word, Akira explodes into action and launches at him like a cat, like a panther, a predator. Teeth clack as he goes to match their lips together, the momentum drawing them down, down, down and hopefully onto the bed if Akechi hasn't moved much.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@ arsenist
Morning, that is, when Akira will apologize in a way that almost starts a second fight because Akechi knows he's the one casts first stones, even if Akira throws boulders in return.
Monday was calm. Tuesday was tense. Wednesday is brutal.
Brutal in the way that makes Akechi want to rip the hair of his own scalp in frustration. A temptation he barely placates with the thought of ripping out Akira's hair instead. Instead they're threaded through the his own wet strands, clenching and unclenching while he paces around the living room. Caged. Frustrated.
Fuck Akira Kurusu for ever entering his life. For having the audacity to move in. For every unwanted mercy, every shitty half assed apology and every stupid fucking coffee he's brewed as a truce.]
Fuck you.
[Venom spat out - the number of times reaching double digits by the way the upstairs neighbor starts to pound on the floor to get them to shut up. Fuck them too. He throws his arms up frustration towards the ceiling, like he can intimidate the elderly couple through the thin plaster ceiling.
But the focus of his ire enraptures his attention without a single word because he knows there's wrath brewing in that smoky vision. The one benefit to his own racing heart is knowing he's pissing off Akira in the same way. Knows that the mask on his face is as thinly veiled as his own righteous, benevolent one used to be. Knows that he's dragging the illustrious, amazing, composed leader down to his level - pulling him into the same muk. Dirtying up that pristine image of a gentleman thief.
There are holes in Akira's shirt. Some in Akechi's own. From normal wear and-
Fingers clenched tight to push and pull, ripping tearing destroying because it's what they do best together. Akechi holds matches. Akira lights them. They both pay for it in the explosion and neither one learns to play away from fire.
There's a new rip on the side of Akira's shirt from when Akechi lunged at him earlier. His fingers trace the tears at the bottom of his own plain blue tee from when he fought back. He misses the day when battle scars were temporary - when they tore across flesh and bone instead of his limited wardrobe]
Wow, what a face! If only your pathetic piece of shit friends could see that look on you. Truly, it's quite disgusting. Aren't you supposed to be the composed one? Supposed to know the right thing to say to calm this down? What an exceptional goddamn job you're doing, Joker.
no subject
Don't talk about them like that.
[He knows that Akechi is bringing them up to dig at his weak point, knows that he's falling right into the trap, but he can't help it anyway. He loves them too much, they're the biggest weak point he has (aside from, ironically, the person in this room using them like so much bait). After needling each other in this argument for what, an hour? Almost two? He may have lost count, but he still knows Akechi is going for all the low blows he can, and he's tragically soft enough to still get hurt by it.
It hurts so much that it makes him angry, even when he knows he shouldn't be, knows he should calm down and apologize for all of the things regardless of whether or not they're his fault. He can't hear the reason over the way it makes his blood boil, over and over until the moment he opens his mouth, Akira already knows he's stumbling over the point of no return.
Composed? Calm? How is he supposed to be any of that when even after all the relief of having him back in his life, all Akechi ever does is-]
You're acting far too proud for someone throwing a tantrum like a child. [In a movement that's quick but devoid of Akira's usual grace, he grabs him by the wrist and looks at his palm with an expression that would be bored if it wasn't so absolutely scathing.] Tell me, Akechi. Does it feel that good to lash out so thoughtlessly? Is it that enticing to charge through without a care for what your words do to you or anyone else?
[From a distance, Akira can feel the sane part of himself try to reign in the wild feeling in his chest before he says something terrible, something he knows that he'd regret... But he doesn't want to listen to it. Not right now.
Both of them are hypocrites, because Akira is snapping back at him, too.]
no subject
[There's a manic edge to the laugh that crosses his lips. He won.
Because yes it feels good to lash out and yes it's enticing to charge, to corrupt, to destroy these golden idols. It's enthralling to rip someone to their core and drag them to a place they think they're too good for. That they can't fall too.
Yes, Akechi is happy to see that perfect leader's calm guise fall apart, to have heat wrap around his wrist, and to match those steps with ones of his own. Devious. All guile and twisted smirks as the tantrum comment sinks into the background, a comment to hold onto for later. Something to use when his ire begins to weaken, when Akira gains ground.]
They make you so weak. Really? That's all it takes? A comment about those lackeys?
[There's a sardonic, almost calm, tone to his voice. Strung. Confined. Imprisoned and unable to pace, so he closes that distance. Eye to eye, victor to loser. His free hand grips Akira's free wrist in a vice, pressing fingertips deep into his flesh against his pulse.
Attacks against Akira don't work. Attacks against the people he cares about does. Always does. Pathetic. Weak. Stupid. He wields the topic like a sword in Mementos, slashes and crashes it against Akira until he turns into the licks of fog that used to be crush crush crush under his heel.]
Tell me, Kurusu-
[Mocking. Angry. So fucking angry. Moves closer, chest pressed against chest and-
He tightens his grip on his wrist - tighter and tighter and tighter until he can feel a rapid pulse in the middle of his palm.]
Does it feel good to know they're nothing without you? Do you get a kick out of it? Is it that enticing to have a little entourage of your own, following you at your every beck and call?
no subject
It's about three centimeters, if he's eyeballing it right.
Three centimeters to thrust his forehead directly into Akechi's, crack both of their temples and send blood gushing down. He could do it now, more easily than he'd like to admit, and the only reason he doesn't is that Akira knows he'll hate himself for it in the morning. Even when his control is frayed, there's lines he won't cross.
But he knows there's something wrong with him, too, because there's worse ones that he'll leap right over.]
I wonder which one it is.
[His hand tightens but this time, it's on purpose and doesn't let up. His voice is quiet but not like normal, something dangerous lurking under the surface, and he already knows he's about to say something that he'll regret.]
Are you just willfully obtuse, or are you not smart about feelings because you spent too long with your head buried in books?
[It's a slap to himself, too, even if Akechi doesn't know that part. There isn't much to talk about from his childhood, and even less that Akira would like to think about, but he plays those cards closer to the chest than anything else.]
Let me spell it out for you, then. I'm the one that's nothing without them. [He practically hisses it out, shoving his chest against him hard, eyes Awakening-angry and the suggestion of nails biting at Akechi's skin. Stop. He has to stop. Don't do this.] I am weak, and they're the ones that fill up everything inside me that's empty.
[The mirror that reflects everything back, that has nothing of its own merit. All the goodness and kindness and warmth that he absorbs, tries to reflect back out because they make him want to be someone good and kind. He's a leader because they needed one. He's strong because they made him so. Kurusu Akira is whoever they need him to be, so many masks that in his darkest moments, sometimes he's afraid he'll lose track of who he really is.
And the one person who Akira never questions who he is with...
He wonders why they do this, sometimes. Does Akechi just hate him that much? Why did he agree to live with him if he does? Is it just an extension of the deal, or are his feelings simply that messed up that he has to push someone away the closer they get?
Akechi brings out his realest self. He brings out all of his good, and all of his bad, and right now just reminds Akira of something that he already knew far too well, all the way back when he knew he wouldn't care if Kamoshida died - it reminds Akira that he's a terrible person and always has been.]
So don't you dare bring them into this when they're better people than you or I will ever be.
no subject
And he knows about Akira Kurusu.
Those sycophants are not better than him - they're nothing and-
They're something because there's truth in that strength that goes beyond the raw power of teaming up. It's in bonds and personas and enhanced abilities that reach impossible lengths. That rip apart the past and create a future ripped from the seems, reshaping even the most intimate parts of the psyche. Hereward was proof of that.]
How insulting-
[Is what he settles on - the pounding on the ceiling above them enough of an annoyance that Akechi's voice settles into a soft anger, his head tilting up to eat up every twist in Akira's expression, every barely held together tremble, every hint of something uncontained coming out in those sharp stings against his wrist.]
To hear my rival say that kind of shit. Do you remember why I hate you so much?
[The problem with a taut emotional thread is when it slacks, it falls. It crumbles. Collapses and tangles. It's reined in - fast, tight and instantaneous on his own, among thralls of people who don't give a shit. But there's a comfort in letting those threads stay loose, drop lower, keep slack surrounded by a shield of four walls and an unrelenting roommate.
Much like everything else in this fucking home, he doesn't know when it happened.
Doesn't know why his lips got so close in a way that's becoming common, hot breath so warm against his face. He wants to soak up this anger and wrath like fuel. Can't help to inch closer to those bitter words incited, meant for him and only him.
When he speaks again, he feels Akira's lips under his - ghosting words that fell loose with that unraveled thread.]
I hate you for your strength and how you handle everything around you - that's something that's only yours. The way you utilize people to get them on your side. How effortless it is. Sakamoto couldn't do that. Nijima couldn't do that. None of them could manage it. Without you, they unravel. You bind them. You draw them in over and over and over. People with no common thread between them brought together. United.
[Jealousy creeps in along with Akechi's fingers, loosened from his bruising grip and trailing up his arm. All reactions. Rapid. Furious and calm. Imprisoned, but not by the vice grip on his wrist. Special. Always special. Blessed by an entity to be special in a way that made all Akechi's efforts look like a mockery. ]
The only weak part of you is your sentimental bullshit.
no subject
With his thoughts already consumed by furious flames, it's only a blip on the radar right now.]
That's the farthest thing from true. [Hazily, like it's happening to someone else, Akira thinks he feels the skin of Akechi's lips catch against his own, one or both of them just a little too dry. It's not as tangible as the anger, so it doesn't get a spotlight in his thoughts.] It's the only fault I have that you focus on, because it's the worst thing of all to you.
[He does not say, "You don't know what it feels like," because that's yet another line that's too much, that Akira won't cross even here at the edge of what he can stand. The pain of feeling empty, an upbringing that was too lonely, the efforts he made for his whole entire life to be a good son that went ignored and then thrown into his face the one time it really mattered - his pain is incomparable to Akechi, or any of his other friends. His suffering doesn't mattered compared to the depths of what they've gone through, and it never will, and no anger Akira ever feels will change that.
He presses Akechi into the wall, grip unrelenting and eyes dagger-bright as he presses his forehead tight against him, incidentally banishing the violent impulses out of his brain as he does. Regardless of what's fair or right, that anger's still there. It's only being reared in a different direction now because of the thing Akechi just said that he can't stand.]
The real bullshit here is that you'd say that to my face, like you aren't just as capable. Like the reason you couldn't come out on top isn't because you had every damn odd stacked against you.
[Akira's so mad, he's so mad, at first he thinks maybe he didn't banish it quite enough, he's about to do or say something so terrible that Akechi will leave, he'll leave and never come back and Akira will never forgive himself for it either-
It's not what happens. Arguably, something worse happens.
He opens his mouth to speak, and his voice comes out shaking.]
You act like it wasn't incredible that you did all of that alone, with the world and a god out to kill you. You say that like if things hadn't been different, if our starting places on the board had been switched, you couldn't have brought people together and been amazing and shone just as bright. You say it like you aren't already-
[He breaks off. But Akechi can read him so well, he has to wonder if the words aren't already hanging there in his eyes, more open windows than they've ever been to everything he tries to bury and crush on a daily basis so as not to destroy the status quo.
Like you aren't already everything to me.
Like I didn't almost destroy reality for you.
Like I wouldn't follow you anywhere, even if I had to drag you right out of hell to bring you home.
Heartbeat thudding in his ears, the shock of his own words makes it so he can almost feel Akechi's lips. He wonders if Akechi has always known, just like they aren't saying anything in here that the other doesn't know, and if he hates it every day the same way he hates Akira's sentimentality.
And if he does know... he wonders what makes him stay, and if he'll finally break apart whatever that is tonight.]
no subject
His spine makes contact with the wall, his rival's body close and unrelenting, grip tight enough to cut off circulation. Grip wild enough to show his victory and-
He laughs, lips contorting into a twisted snarl because it doesn't matter what he says now. Every word meaningless meaningless, meaningless in the wake of those eyes. They're going to fight, he wants to fight, this is a fight and-
In Mementos, under the pulsing walls and whispers closer to static than human, he remembers the moment he lost. How he felt on the cusp of victory, to have it pulled out from under his feet with a deft handling of persona, a practiced slash of knives, dodges and counters that put every distorted heart Akechi had charged through to shame.
Every ruler could combine into a single entity - fight him with everything at once. Mementos could join with its legions of enemies and-
They would never compare to Akira Kurusu.
He remembers a slip of his heel, how his own persona ached in his chest to be released, how Robin Hood faltered in the wake of an unstoppable force. Remembers how his pounding heart begged to unleash everything, how his staggered breath felt when he saw red, red, red every time his eyes would settle on his rival.
It happens again-
You act like it wasn't incredible is met with a hushed stop. ...if things hadn't been different with a louder stop and have brought people together and been amazing and shone just as bright with a louder and louder stop because-
He wasn't prepared for Kurusu to be this talented of a liar - one more well practiced skill where Akechi comes second place.
But then he does stop and Akechi knows it's not because of his increasing protests. He stops because those lingering words make his own fingers dig into the soft flesh of Akira's arm, make him-
Short circuit. Something's wrong with him. Everything's wrong with him. With the both of them. There's something there and Akechi can't place it - too foreign, too horrific, too close to being said. It can't be said. It won't be said because Akira has talent in twisting words, but he doesn't know wield it in full. Doesn't understand how long you need to practice before you feel nothing from them.
Because Akira lies and he still feels something - it shines bright in the little bit of Joker in the corner of his eyes, defined in the harsh lines on his face, in the-
Softness of his lips - a line breached and crossed in quick succession.]
Shut up.
[Is all he can whisper against them, in between a new type of frenzy. In an unyielding pressure, amateurish and wild, pulling free of containment to press against Akira's lips again, again, again in a frenzied flurry of peppered kisses becoming harsher with each contact. Because he can still fix it.
This will fix it.]
no subject
He would've thought he was dreaming, if not for the bite of Akechi's teeth on the next kiss, and it's what startles him into action.
He's dreamt of this so often. Daydreams, wet dreams, something always a little softer than this because fantasies meant he could have whatever sweet dreams he wanted - of Akechi being a better person or Akira being a worse person, instead of meeting in the middle like in reality. Still always passionate, still always a battle, because even the most fanciful thoughts would be unsatisfying if neither of them acted like themselves.
In real life, it hurts. It's bitter and angry and grieved, it's full of fear and trepidation because if he lets out too much sentimentality it'll make Akechi leave for sure, and his chest hurts so much he thinks it'll explode-
-and it's everything, everything that Akira could've ever wanted. Because it's him and it's Akechi and it's real, and they're broken beyond repair and maybe about to break their lives too, but Akira can feel his heart beating against his own chest and it's real.
So Akira answers the stones of his peppered kisses, and answers with a boulder in return - he slams Akechi into the wall and kisses him back.
Objectively, it's certainly not his first, but this is probably one of the worst kisses Akira's ever given - it must be too raw and painful to feel good, he makes a noise like a wounded animal as he parts his lips because it feels like he's being stabbed through the chest, and it's going to become salty very quickly if the tears behind his closed eyes spill where it's safe from Akechi's sight.
And yet, it's still the best he's ever had.
His hand is a claw at Akechi's shoulder, not because he wants to mark him necessarily, but because he doesn't know what else to do but hold on, mark his place, keep Akechi right here with the dig of Akira's nails leaving welts and the weight of his front pinning him to the wall. Maybe it'll make it enough to weigh more than his hate.
He searches for Akechi's tongue, breathes desperately through his nose, and tries not to think about the heat and want starting to swirl through his gut. He has to put a stop to it, but that's impossible when everything he's wanted for two years is digging its teeth into everything of Akira it can reach. He should let go, at least pull his hips back before something gets obvious, but he doesn't. Can't. Won't.
Akira's afraid of what's going to happen to him when - not if, because he can't have that much hope, so when he has to look at Akechi's back when he walks away. He doesn't want to find out all the new ways he's going to break apart. So he holds on tight, and kisses him back as hard as he can, and fruitlessly tries to stuff all of his desire as deep down as it can go while it spills out between his fingers.]
no subject
Was inevitable. This. He's felt it in lingering gazes, in tense standoffs, in quiet afternoons and volatile evenings.
Even so, Akechi never thought Akira would be this stupid - to meet his once enemy's lips with such vigorous intent. It doesn't matter they live in uneasy tandem and aligning orbits - that past remains, clear and brittle. A source of ire between them and a way to spurn rivalries in other areas of their shared lives.
He's pressed into a wall and doesn't feel trapped. A sting against his shoulder. Sloppy, pained rage subdued and smothered with lips that muffle words.
Akira's an idiot. Akechi's a bigger one. He meant to end the shit spewing from his mouth with an act that would-
Disgust him, maybe. Frustrate him. Choke the words from this throat without fingers and palms and ignore-
That he's thought about this body pressing him down until every bit of air and thought is gagged out. Ignore a wandering mind that followed him like a shadow into his room, straddling his hips tight under his body, force attention on him and him alone. Hidden pieces of Akira unraveled for his eyes and ears.
It doesn't hurt. It's not unpleasant, because it's Akira. There's no perfection between them. Gets messier the closer they get.
His hand moves up to tangle into his hair - pressing him closer, deeper, allowing himself to be found just to attack his mouth in return. He wants to suffocate. Be suffocated. Survival instincts ignored for as long as he can, until he has to break free with a deep inhale. A turn to the side. Lips feel swollen, and that's fine. If he looks at Akira he's sure-
Of nothing, in this moment.
His grip stays twisted in those locks of black hair, tightening against the base of his skull. Hears nothing outside of his own stammered breathing forced back into compliance. Takes a second to readjust, reframe, reassess.
He says nothing. Doesn't move. Doesn't check Akira's face. Doesn't turn his gaze from the freckled stain against the bottom of the wall. It reminds him of spilled coffee. Akira probably did it, mindlessly wandering around the apartment.
They have a lease - that's a fine and he's annoyed.
A tongue runs over his lips - unintentional and soothing before his eyes lock back with Akira's. Frenzied. Intense. Chin tilting up to maintain some semblance of visual control.]
We share this space.
[As if that explains everything happening and is more than a mindless, hazy assessment of their living situation. The wall behind him pure ice, the body in front of him lava - his own body getting hard against friction.]
We're going to your room, not mine.
i wasn't even supposed to do this rn but i read it again from bed and ran to my computer possessed
But, it isn't what's happening.
Akira's breaths go still in his chest for an eternal second.
It slides through his brain like treacle that he's hard, strained against his sweatpants, and on the other side of the fabric is another layer of cloth and Akechi's own hardness pressed against him. His heartbeat is so loud in his ears, warring for first place with the cacophony of his thoughts loudly trying to reject what his heart has desired for so long.
He knows what it means, what Akechi's implying. Akira isn't a virgin, even if it'll be the first time anything's happened in that room outside of masturbation.
He's had sex precisely three times since starting college, each one an increasingly more desperate attempt to get over the feelings choking him like a never-ending poison, but never in this apartment. He'd never sully their shared space with it, not in any one of these rooms. Three times, to see if the third would be the charm, to see if he could finally move on and be to Akechi who he was supposed to be - someone that was safe to hate, safe to be a rival to, and maybe sometimes could be considered a friend.
In the moment that he'd felt the heat of his former classmate's come through the condom, somehow he'd known. He'd known, laying there and panting up at that unfamiliar ceiling, that that would be the last time and the complicated feeling in his chest was something he could never uproot. He had completely and unequivocally known that there was something deeply wrong with him, something far beyond his usual and forecasted brokenness, that he would reject the comfort of someone that liked him just enough and instead choose the excruciatingly painful uncertainty of a maybe that would never happen.
Akira had showered, cleaned himself up and come home, made dinner and sat across from his roommate like everything was normal. And in the afternoon of that following day, the moment he made sure their apartment was empty, he'd cried harder than he ever had in his entire life.
He'd thought he finally understood what it felt like to have his heart break.
It feels unreal that now, having buried and grieved for the impossible, that he can be feeling Akechi's erection against his own, hot and firm and real. He doesn't dare wish for more, knows that accepting Akechi into his room and therefore his bed will shatter him in new ways when he's inevitably left alone in it. He knows the right thing is to say no, so that maybe he can still look him in the face tomorrow and watch Akechi's eyebrows crease down in that familiar way when he accepts the apology coffee Akira always makes.
And yet, what he says is-]
Okay.
[It's whispered between their mouths, as tiny and quiet and loud as a thunderclap, reverberates up through his spine. Akira grabs at his sleeve the same way he does when he wants to get Akechi's attention but can't meet his eyes for some reason, and gently tugs him away from the wall. It feels so many leagues away from the fierce kissing, as fraught as a fight, that he'd think he was watching a video of himself if the realness of it wasn't making him tremble ever so slightly, impossible to suppress.
He hasn't had a mask up in so long, Akira can't help but wonder what kind of expression he's making as he stares at Akechi's near-crazed eyes. He wonders if it's as fragile as he feels right now.
His heartbeats are so, so loud.
If he isn't going to say something combative, he should at least say something- teasing, at least as flirty as their norm, or something halfway sexy, but what comes out is a still-too-quiet-]
I only have lube in there.
[It spirals hot down his neck, hopefully not to his face, saying what he means without actually saying it. Practical, but embarrassing and still probably fragile. For himself or for a partner, he'd never planned on needing any condoms ever again. Maybe it'll ward him off, somehow. Maybe Akechi is the type of person that hates not using any, or maybe he'll think that Akira is the type of person that sleeps around carelessly and shouldn't be touched that way.
If Akechi leaves on his own terms before they go too far, maybe Akira can still find a way to pick himself up off the ground.]
im losing my mind don't look at the timestamp in this essay
Kurusu Akira - leader of the Phantom Thieves, a man that steals hearts and heals souls, who defies gods and rips apart centuries old legacies with words sharpened from injustice, a cruel world, a pathetic reality meant to exploit-
Only has lube in there.
A reminder that above all else Kurusu Akira is infallibly human, and it's why Akechi Goro hates him in the deepest recesses of his heart.
They move forward, as always. Every step makes his body feel like lead and air in equal measure. Red tinting the base of his own neck - irritation at his roommate, embarrassment at the fucking topic at hand, knowledge his own lack of experience will show to a rival he can never lose to.]
Then that's what we'll use.
[It's
sitting in a room, in the fading remnants of a true reality. The hinges impossible to see. Frayed threads invisible, no matter how tight they wind their fingers around it, no matter how much they pull, pull, pull back.
They're in a room -Taking stock of items, supplies - 'That's what we'll use' a statement made over the questionable pills from a doctor almost disbarred. Someone Akira trusts with his life, trusts the lives of others to, so Akechi puts the barest amount of faith in it.
Preparing for battle - it's all the same with them. Always the same. Always a fight.
Tone steady, voice low - unintentional, air filling depleted lungs, mouth sore.]
Stop making me wait - I don't have the patience for a conversation right now.
[Because
He's greedy. Wants for everything, yearns for nothing, craves a world that was never his and-
Wants to steal it. Wants to take him. Wants that creeping red to flow up - a path he follows with the fingertips resting on the back of Akira's neck.A threat, maybe, in his palm - fingers light across his skin, all the way up to his hairline. It could change in an instant - Akechi almost does it. Wants to see. Wants to watch. A constant, moving line that Akira pulls forward, every time Akechi crosses it.
A bullet to the skull. Fingers around his neck. Stolen breath that he wants to feel against his own lips.]
Move.
i can't look at the timestamp because i can't read 👌
However... It finally isn't nerves, or yearning, or longing that make him silent.
It's the Then that's what we'll use, a flintstone's spark that lights up his brain, makes him move again, be a person again that isn't silently mourning his own broken heart as he lives in the place that will drive the fissures deepest. It's the reminder of safe rooms, of Joker, who he was and who he has always been and will be again. It's them, him and Akechi, drawn into their own orbits as they have perpetually been for nearing a decade.
He knows this person across from him intimately in all ways but one. He knows how his mind works, how his body moves, the differences of his breaths outside but tense around strangers and at ease at Jazz Jin and the odd blend of sharp and relaxed that he has in their own shared space. He left his imprint upon him as a boy, and has been with him for nearly every step of being a man.
Akechi knows him at his best, his worst, his most magnificent and his most horrible. With Akechi, he can be kind, or steel, or gentle, or sharp. He can be the terrible person he truly is, even as he lives every day trying so hard to be a good one. Akira can trust him with his back, his throat, his heart, knowing full well that he could slice open every single one til his life is spent. He is the only one that Akira can show himself unmasked, as petrifying as it feels even with him.
If he breaks at the end of it all, he will break. He's already placed himself in those hands a long time ago. He will face it.
Move, Kurusu Akira.
He does, grace restored, sinewy and smooth as he practically glides in the direction of his bedroom. The soft way he pulls Akechi along probably irritates him, but Akira feels distant from it. He feels distant from his body itself, though he's still somehow aware of how quickly his heart is beating and the dull ache at the apex of his thighs.
There's no room for him to feel weak or empty. Not right now.
It's not until they've breached the barrier of his room that he releases Akechi from that familiar hold, the way he has so many times before; there's even the hints of satisfaction left over in his steps, as if now too he's finished telling him whatever needed to be said. He doesn't turn around as he rifles through the drawer, careful not to knock into the other solid objects under his underwear.
Akira still needs some secrets, after all, and Akechi doesn't really need to know about any of his sex toys... or how much use they've gotten.
The moment his hands are on the bottle - half-empty, but more than enough for this - he turns to toss it on the bed with a simple flick of his wrist. It lands up near the top, almost perfectly in reach for grabbing when it's needed. And then he's near still again, only moving to tilt his head to the side as he considers Akechi with silent eyes. Weighs the tension in his body.
Weighs the wildness of his gaze, the impatience of his words, and lets heat pool hotter in his belly.
Without a word, Akira explodes into action and launches at him like a cat, like a panther, a predator. Teeth clack as he goes to match their lips together, the momentum drawing them down, down, down and hopefully onto the bed if Akechi hasn't moved much.]