[Detective's intuition - that's what the mindless idiots around the office used to call his ability to pinpoint and notate small details. A talent. An innate skill.
It's nothing like that - it's cultivated from years of watching. Of reading expressions, gestures and changes in tone and tempo in voices. Sometimes directed at him, more often not.
Akira's face changes and only when it's referencing Shido. All the vile he's spewing out and it's Shido and it's always Shido and not even in a perfect idealized world can Akechi get a break from coming second to him. It doesn't matter if it hit the mark. Doesn't matter if Akira's shift in body language means he won because it's fucking Shido that did it.
It's infuriating.
Worse when Akira steps up to him in pure defiance. Better because of it. His rival isn't one to fall from words alone and challenges are a dance for them. One that he will offer again and again and again until he's satisfied. Until Akira falls down to his level and snaps.
But he doesn't.
He keeps talking in that steady, calm manner that makes him want to vomit. Focused on him. Looking at him. Talking to him. Trusting him.
Akechi laughs - manic and raw. Strangled from his throat like his own fingers are twisting the life out of him. Like those words rip the life out of him.]
How idiotic can you be? So desperate for what? You're so pathetic - it makes me sick.
[Fabric twists against his fingers instead of the cool countertop - he hadn't realized he was gripping Akira's shirt, nails digging into skin when he can, as if his body is trying to make the decision whether to toss him over the counter or throw him to the floor without input from his mind.]
I would set up your friends again. I would set you up again. I would kill you again. I would do all of that to ensure Maruki's reality is destroyed and you're going to stand there and say you trust me?
[Even if he had sat over a toilet stool for hours, drenched in blood of the only companion he ever had, vomiting up contents of his stomach until all he could think about was the invisible gore embedded in his fingertips.]
Even if you're willing to sacrifice yourself for that foolish shit, are you willing to risk your precious friends lives on that notion?
[The sickening truth is known to both. Friendship is everything, friendship is blahblahblah. He's nauseated at the thought, throat dry when he speaks again. ]
Please. I know you far better than that. Don't think you can placate me with that garbage. I don't need it. I don't want it.
[ Akechi grabs him and Akira finally lifts a hand. He doesn't do anything as reasonable as try to break Akechi's grip on his shirt, though. He just curls his fingers around Akechi's wrist, fingers pressing gently into the fabric of his coat and the leather of his gloves. ]
I know you would. And you're right, I wouldn't risk their lives over it.
[ There's no sense in arguing the point because Akechi is dead on in his assessment. Akira knows—intuitively, logically, from experience—that Akechi won't stop until he's dead, and that the mere threat of death won't be enough to even slow him down. But there's also no point in arguing because... ]
But I also know it's not going to happen.
[ Because he knows that he's not going to waver; and he knows that Akechi isn't going to waver; and even if Akechi doesn't want to admit it, Akira is certain that Akechi knows neither of those things will happen, too. But getting Akechi to agree out loud to that, or even convincing him to believe it privately...
Well, that's probably not possible. Not with words, at least. If Akechi ever believes him, it'll be once Maruki is dealt with and Akechi is gone forever. If Akira's being honest with himself, he's known convincing him isn't possible since the start of this conversation. It would have been nice if it was, though, and realizing that makes the rest of his thoughts all click into place and neatly align with one another. Akira closes his eyes for just a moment, just long enough for him to reorient himself with the smell of coffee lingering in the air, the sound of the refrigerator humming away, the feel of his hand around Akechi's wrist.
When he opens his eyes again his gaze is clear, steady, and unflinching. The tension around his eyes and brows has melted away entirely. ]
It's alright if you don't believe me. I just wanted you to hear it from me.
[There are plenty of reasons to hate Akira Kurusu.
Despite the ideals and preaching of his retinue of bumbling idiots - a group of people who would always, without fail, go to bat for their leader at even the smallest insult, it doesn't change the truth.
Akira Kurusu is detestable.
Exhausting confidence, unflappable demeanor and even in the most emotionally charged moments, he grips it tight. Presses fingers into the pulse of his wrist in a way that infuriates and grounds him. The mental struggle between tossing him to the ground or pushing him back into those organized cannisters is gone. If he had a weapon to plunge into him, Akechi's certain he would use it right now.
It's not going to happen he says, like it's a fact. I just wanted you to hear it from me, like it's the truth.
He hates Akira. Hates Joker. Hates the phantom thieves and Maruki and every twisted variation of human that walks this fake world.
His ire isn't gone, but it diminishes into tense annoyance and a raised chin to stare down this newfound determination. To intimidate. To gain ground lost when Akira took those steps between them.
But even he doesn't want to spend his last night alive in a frothing rage at some homely cafe in the middle of Tokyo. The knuckle white grip on his shirt ends and both hands drop to his side with the intent to pull him off his wrist by force of gravity alone.]
You're a complete idiot, but if all you care about is saying your piece, then you did. Congratulations.
[Said with all the mirth and joy of someone about to lay down in sewage drain during a downpour.]
I heard it. Are you satisfied? Are you content? Will hearing me say that stop all this bullshit spewing from your mouth?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
It's nothing like that - it's cultivated from years of watching. Of reading expressions, gestures and changes in tone and tempo in voices. Sometimes directed at him, more often not.
Akira's face changes and only when it's referencing Shido. All the vile he's spewing out and it's Shido and it's always Shido and not even in a perfect idealized world can Akechi get a break from coming second to him. It doesn't matter if it hit the mark. Doesn't matter if Akira's shift in body language means he won because it's fucking Shido that did it.
It's infuriating.
Worse when Akira steps up to him in pure defiance. Better because of it. His rival isn't one to fall from words alone and challenges are a dance for them. One that he will offer again and again and again until he's satisfied. Until Akira falls down to his level and snaps.
But he doesn't.
He keeps talking in that steady, calm manner that makes him want to vomit. Focused on him. Looking at him. Talking to him. Trusting him.
Akechi laughs - manic and raw. Strangled from his throat like his own fingers are twisting the life out of him. Like those words rip the life out of him.]
How idiotic can you be? So desperate for what? You're so pathetic - it makes me sick.
[Fabric twists against his fingers instead of the cool countertop - he hadn't realized he was gripping Akira's shirt, nails digging into skin when he can, as if his body is trying to make the decision whether to toss him over the counter or throw him to the floor without input from his mind.]
I would set up your friends again. I would set you up again. I would kill you again. I would do all of that to ensure Maruki's reality is destroyed and you're going to stand there and say you trust me?
[Even if he had sat over a toilet stool for hours, drenched in blood of the only companion he ever had, vomiting up contents of his stomach until all he could think about was the invisible gore embedded in his fingertips.]
Even if you're willing to sacrifice yourself for that foolish shit, are you willing to risk your precious friends lives on that notion?
[The sickening truth is known to both. Friendship is everything, friendship is blahblahblah. He's nauseated at the thought, throat dry when he speaks again. ]
Please. I know you far better than that. Don't think you can placate me with that garbage. I don't need it. I don't want it.
no subject
I know you would. And you're right, I wouldn't risk their lives over it.
[ There's no sense in arguing the point because Akechi is dead on in his assessment. Akira knows—intuitively, logically, from experience—that Akechi won't stop until he's dead, and that the mere threat of death won't be enough to even slow him down. But there's also no point in arguing because... ]
But I also know it's not going to happen.
[ Because he knows that he's not going to waver; and he knows that Akechi isn't going to waver; and even if Akechi doesn't want to admit it, Akira is certain that Akechi knows neither of those things will happen, too. But getting Akechi to agree out loud to that, or even convincing him to believe it privately...
Well, that's probably not possible. Not with words, at least. If Akechi ever believes him, it'll be once Maruki is dealt with and Akechi is gone forever. If Akira's being honest with himself, he's known convincing him isn't possible since the start of this conversation. It would have been nice if it was, though, and realizing that makes the rest of his thoughts all click into place and neatly align with one another. Akira closes his eyes for just a moment, just long enough for him to reorient himself with the smell of coffee lingering in the air, the sound of the refrigerator humming away, the feel of his hand around Akechi's wrist.
When he opens his eyes again his gaze is clear, steady, and unflinching. The tension around his eyes and brows has melted away entirely. ]
It's alright if you don't believe me. I just wanted you to hear it from me.
no subject
Despite the ideals and preaching of his retinue of bumbling idiots - a group of people who would always, without fail, go to bat for their leader at even the smallest insult, it doesn't change the truth.
Akira Kurusu is detestable.
Exhausting confidence, unflappable demeanor and even in the most emotionally charged moments, he grips it tight. Presses fingers into the pulse of his wrist in a way that infuriates and grounds him. The mental struggle between tossing him to the ground or pushing him back into those organized cannisters is gone. If he had a weapon to plunge into him, Akechi's certain he would use it right now.
It's not going to happen he says, like it's a fact. I just wanted you to hear it from me, like it's the truth.
He hates Akira. Hates Joker. Hates the phantom thieves and Maruki and every twisted variation of human that walks this fake world.
His ire isn't gone, but it diminishes into tense annoyance and a raised chin to stare down this newfound determination. To intimidate. To gain ground lost when Akira took those steps between them.
But even he doesn't want to spend his last night alive in a frothing rage at some homely cafe in the middle of Tokyo. The knuckle white grip on his shirt ends and both hands drop to his side with the intent to pull him off his wrist by force of gravity alone.]
You're a complete idiot, but if all you care about is saying your piece, then you did. Congratulations.
[Said with all the mirth and joy of someone about to lay down in sewage drain during a downpour.]
I heard it. Are you satisfied? Are you content? Will hearing me say that stop all this bullshit spewing from your mouth?