[ Of course Akechi doesn't go gently, peacefully into whatever awaits him next. He struggles until his body loses all ability, tries to speak, tries to look–
What does he see, Maruki wonders. Is his mother the one holding him in her arms, or is it him, or can se he see anything at all? Can he hear?
There's no way of knowing. Akechi doesn't respond to anything he says, but Maruki can't let him go in silence. The conversations they've had could fill a book; the conversations they'll never get to now could fill libraries. He woke up in the middle of every night, no matter the circumstances, just to be able to chat with him more. He isn't about to stop talking to Akechi now.
Every word is soft, deliberate. Every motion of fingers soothing through hair the same. Akechi is dying, and Maruki won't let him feel any of his own fear or sorrow in this moment. He will leave this earth getting only from Maruki what has always been given: unconditional love and care. ]
You don't have to be afraid of anything now. You don't have to keep going. You can rest.
[ And: ]
We've already proven that we'll know one another in more than one life, haven't we? The next one is waiting. I'll meet you earlier in it. I promise.
[ And: ]
I was never lonely when I was with you.
[ And then, when there's nothing more that breaks the silence but the occasional soft, wet choking noise: ]
You're alright. You're alright. You're alright.
[ You're alright,
you're alright,
you're alright.
A canticle repeating, softer and softer, until his head bows down to rest his cheek against Akechi's crown.
It's quiet.
So quiet.
A cognitive ship doesn't creak on the water. Metal pipes don't hiss, waves don't lap at the sides. There's only stillness all around them, stillness when he presses a blood-streaked palm over Akechi's chest to try to seek out a heartbeat, stillness when he raises it higher to feel for any breath still puffing labored past his lips. Only stillness, and silence, and–
Maruki waits. Strains to hear footsteps and voices where there are none. Maybe Akira will return, with or without the rest of the Thieves, to see what became of that voice on the other side of a thick steel wall. Maybe neither of them will have to bear this untenable grief alone.
Akechi doesn't feel as heavy as he should in his arms. More like the weight of a sleepy child who refused to walk on his own through a castle. Maruki can't let him go. Holds him there, holds him closer to rest an unhearing ear against his own chest, where an unkillable heart stubbornly hammers away.
He only cried in front of Akechi once, and just barely. Chin tipped up toward the ceiling of the bathhouse, heat stinging behind his eyes, six words ringing in his mind and leaving an echo that he can still hear: ]
[ Barely above a whisper, a spot of Akechi's hair dampening against his cheek.
It isn't fair.
He saw Akechi's power for himself. Felt it, even, that warm blue light calling him back after he teetered over the brink of death. He had it. Why couldn't he have used it? Stubbornness against summoning Robin Hood, or genuine inability in the moment?
Why hasn't Maruki developed that same ability? If anyone should be able to raise the dead, it's the two of them, isn't it?
He tries. Focuses inward. Grief and outrage and rebellion awakened a god from his soul, after all – he searches every last corner of it now, desperately pawing through the ashes of a home for twisted, half-burnt remains of valued goods, but there's nothing. Some things must be beyond will power and conviction after all, because if that was all it would take to resurrect Akechi Goro in a burst of bright blue vines and flowers, he would have done so ten times over.
It isn't fair, and–
Nothing is, in the end, least of all for men like them. Akechi would tell him this is all deserved. The price you pay for forming bonds. Pain to be learned from and then discarded. Don't hang onto sentimental shit. Don't grieve. Move forward. Don't stop. Don't ever stop.
If I die, then I'm dead. Ignore it or remember a corpse.
Even back then, Akechi had to have known Maruki wouldn't be able to do either.
He can't carry a body out of the Metaverse, even though leaving one there is worse in every conceivable way. When he stumbles back into reality outside the Diet Building, Akechi's lifeless form is still burned into his eyelids as he doubles over and dry-heaves on the ground.
He doesn't know how he manages to get home. Everything is blank, a blur.
Doesn't remember pulling the futon out from beneath his bed.
Doesn't remember laying down on it to bury his face in a pillow that still smells of whatever designer shampoo his stylists told him to use, and–
Doesn't know how long he lays there in the dark, breathing, furious at himself for being the one still breathing.
It's late. So late.
Doesn't think as he pulls his phone from his pocket, opens up his message chain with Akira, types out I hope you know that even though I'm no longer your counselor, I'm still here for you if you need it and hits send. Doesn't worry that Akira might find the timing oddly suspicious. Doesn't care if it raises questions that can't be brushed off with Maruki's general altruistic nature.
Doesn't think as he opens Akechi's next. Stares at it, the only square of light in the darkness of his shoebox apartment, worsening the headache he's already given himself tonight. Doesn't type anything. Just stares until his battery dies.
He should sleep. He should figure out what to do next. He should visit a shrine. He should make a butsudan. He should–
Bury himself beneath the blankets on the futon. Extra thick, meant for winter but used no matter the season, piled up in layers so high the shape of a body underneath them could never be seen.
It's warm. So warm.
The light of the conbini across the street filters in through parted curtains, illuminates the space beneath his bed. Ten specks of dust. He counts them again and again until sleep takes him. ]
Edited (wakes up hours later sees a typo thats the caitlin special babeyyy) 2025-04-19 10:04 (UTC)
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What does he see, Maruki wonders. Is his mother the one holding him in her arms, or is it him, or can se he see anything at all? Can he hear?
There's no way of knowing. Akechi doesn't respond to anything he says, but Maruki can't let him go in silence. The conversations they've had could fill a book; the conversations they'll never get to now could fill libraries. He woke up in the middle of every night, no matter the circumstances, just to be able to chat with him more. He isn't about to stop talking to Akechi now.
Every word is soft, deliberate. Every motion of fingers soothing through hair the same. Akechi is dying, and Maruki won't let him feel any of his own fear or sorrow in this moment. He will leave this earth getting only from Maruki what has always been given: unconditional love and care. ]
You don't have to be afraid of anything now. You don't have to keep going. You can rest.
[ And: ]
We've already proven that we'll know one another in more than one life, haven't we? The next one is waiting. I'll meet you earlier in it. I promise.
[ And: ]
I was never lonely when I was with you.
[ And then, when there's nothing more that breaks the silence but the occasional soft, wet choking noise: ]
You're alright. You're alright. You're alright.
[ You're alright,
you're alright.
A canticle repeating, softer and softer, until his head bows down to rest his cheek against Akechi's crown.
It's quiet.
So quiet.
A cognitive ship doesn't creak on the water. Metal pipes don't hiss, waves don't lap at the sides. There's only stillness all around them, stillness when he presses a blood-streaked palm over Akechi's chest to try to seek out a heartbeat, stillness when he raises it higher to feel for any breath still puffing labored past his lips. Only stillness, and silence, and–
Maruki waits. Strains to hear footsteps and voices where there are none. Maybe Akira will return, with or without the rest of the Thieves, to see what became of that voice on the other side of a thick steel wall. Maybe neither of them will have to bear this untenable grief alone.
Akechi doesn't feel as heavy as he should in his arms. More like the weight of a sleepy child who refused to walk on his own through a castle. Maruki can't let him go. Holds him there, holds him closer to rest an unhearing ear against his own chest, where an unkillable heart stubbornly hammers away.
He only cried in front of Akechi once, and just barely. Chin tipped up toward the ceiling of the bathhouse, heat stinging behind his eyes, six words ringing in his mind and leaving an echo that he can still hear: ]
You did the best you could.
[ Barely above a whisper, a spot of Akechi's hair dampening against his cheek.
It isn't fair.
He saw Akechi's power for himself. Felt it, even, that warm blue light calling him back after he teetered over the brink of death. He had it. Why couldn't he have used it? Stubbornness against summoning Robin Hood, or genuine inability in the moment?
Why hasn't Maruki developed that same ability? If anyone should be able to raise the dead, it's the two of them, isn't it?
He tries. Focuses inward. Grief and outrage and rebellion awakened a god from his soul, after all – he searches every last corner of it now, desperately pawing through the ashes of a home for twisted, half-burnt remains of valued goods, but there's nothing. Some things must be beyond will power and conviction after all, because if that was all it would take to resurrect Akechi Goro in a burst of bright blue vines and flowers, he would have done so ten times over.
It isn't fair, and–
Nothing is, in the end, least of all for men like them. Akechi would tell him this is all deserved. The price you pay for forming bonds. Pain to be learned from and then discarded. Don't hang onto sentimental shit. Don't grieve. Move forward. Don't stop. Don't ever stop.
If I die, then I'm dead. Ignore it or remember a corpse.
Even back then, Akechi had to have known Maruki wouldn't be able to do either.
He can't carry a body out of the Metaverse, even though leaving one there is worse in every conceivable way. When he stumbles back into reality outside the Diet Building, Akechi's lifeless form is still burned into his eyelids as he doubles over and dry-heaves on the ground.
He doesn't know how he manages to get home. Everything is blank, a blur.
Doesn't remember pulling the futon out from beneath his bed.
Doesn't remember laying down on it to bury his face in a pillow that still smells of whatever designer shampoo his stylists told him to use, and–
Doesn't know how long he lays there in the dark, breathing, furious at himself for being the one still breathing.
It's late. So late.
Doesn't think as he pulls his phone from his pocket, opens up his message chain with Akira, types out I hope you know that even though I'm no longer your counselor, I'm still here for you if you need it and hits send. Doesn't worry that Akira might find the timing oddly suspicious. Doesn't care if it raises questions that can't be brushed off with Maruki's general altruistic nature.
Doesn't think as he opens Akechi's next. Stares at it, the only square of light in the darkness of his shoebox apartment, worsening the headache he's already given himself tonight. Doesn't type anything. Just stares until his battery dies.
He should sleep. He should figure out what to do next. He should visit a shrine. He should make a butsudan. He should–
Bury himself beneath the blankets on the futon. Extra thick, meant for winter but used no matter the season, piled up in layers so high the shape of a body underneath them could never be seen.
It's warm. So warm.
The light of the conbini across the street filters in through parted curtains, illuminates the space beneath his bed. Ten specks of dust. He counts them again and again until sleep takes him. ]