Goro Akechi is halfway out of class and glancing down at his phone to check for messages when he sees it. The calling card is his lock screen.
He freezes in the doorway. The rest of his classmates buffet him cluelessly out of the way until he’s just standing by the door in the hall, but he barely feels it, can barely even take in the words blazed across the screen. We will take your distorted desires without fail.
The phone buzzes in his hands. A text. A photo message, Akira fucking Kurusu, who he shot, who he watched die, making a peace sign with one hand and holding up today’s newspaper with the other, the tiniest smuggest smirk on his face.
It feels like a joke. It feels like he’s been stabbed in the chest. Or in the back - and here he thought he was the treacherous one. Impossible, impossible, impossible that this could happen, that Kurusu could be alive, that he could be shown up like this by those fucking kids. (And how could it be possible? Never even mind Kurusu being alive - Goro has a Persona, he has two, the cat said… Maybe they were only trying to scare him. But there was no precedent for them doing something like that, and if Kurusu was okay who knew what they could pull off?)
They must have been laughing at him the whole time. His entire body is shaking so hard he thinks he might drop the phone.
The thought occurs to him of just... just taking his gun and going straight to Leblanc, before they can go through with it. But they would have thought of that, why else would they send him this at the end of the school day? They wouldn’t even be at Leblanc by the time he got there, or outside his Palace. (He should know what his Palace is, but somehow he can’t even begin to start guessing. It’s like his brain is wading through sludge. Goro’s never felt so goddamn stupid.) And anyway, even if he did catch them in time, how’s he going to cover up an unplanned multiple homicide in Yongen-Jaya?
All he can see is Kurusu’s face. He wants to scream. He wants to snap his phone in half. One of his idiot classmates is saying something to him and he can’t parse the meaning of her words because all he can think about is that he’s ruined, and he’s ruined because he can’t hold a candle to Akira goddamn Kurusu.
But. It hasn’t happened quite yet. He’s his own last defence. He knows the inside of his own mind, he knows he’s miles better than any of their previous marks. And he’s not going to wait around to be executed.
He takes a breath. Smiles at his classmates and says something meaningless, and then types with trembling hands.
Goro Akechi: I’m going to kill you I’m going to kill you I’m going
Stops. Deletes it. (Don’t get sloppy now, Akechi.) Starts again.
Goro Akechi: Good luck, Joker.
Read, 3:39 p.m.
He leaves school. Finds a quiet, unoccupied alley where he can think. Opens the navigation app.
Place. Keyword. It’s so hard to make himself focus, hard not to think about how much he needs to pull this off, how violated he feels by the idea of them getting into his head in the first place. (How much do they already know? They’ve been infiltrating the place for days at least - no. Stop.) Where to even start? He doesn’t… he’s never felt any mastery or connection to any one place, never belonged anywhere.
He tries his apartment, the National Diet Building, the police headquarters. Fucking Shido’s fucking house. He even suggests “The hearts and minds of the Japanese people” to the Nav as a gag. None of them are hits, of course. Hmm.
He needs to be methodical about this. He tries every special ward he’s ever spent time in, and then the rest of them too. (For a moment he genuinely fears Ni-chome will be a hit, just to bring him as much mortification as possible, even though he’s barely set foot in the place.) Goes from there and expands: Tokyo, Kanto, Honshu, Japan-
And that’s the one. Okay. He’s getting somewhere. And the location is broad enough that he should be able to get in from here, once he has the rest of it.
A keyword. What is Japan to him? A shitty fucking backwards garbage dump of a country, but that’s not a Palace, now, is it, so concentrate. A… a contest. A television show? No. A competition. What kind of competition? How do you make a competition a place?
A warzone. A battlefield.
Maybe he’s being too literal. Come on, you dumb piece of shit, they figured this out.
A colosseum. A sports arena. An arcade.
“Beginning navigation,” chimes the app.
(Okay, let’s be honest: he’d loved arcades once, saved every coin he had for them. Every Sunday, when she could, when she wasn’t working or having one of her bad days, his mother would take him to the one in the mall by their apartment. But then she died, of course, and his first foster parents told him he needed to grow up. He hadn’t understood at the time but they were right. Some people just can’t afford to waste their time like that.)
The world shifts in front of him. Not dramatically - the world goes a bit dimmer, like an overcast evening; the rumble of traffic and conversation muffles, the familiar sense of strangeness sets in. Nothing else, yet. His bike is still here, which is convenient.
When he glances down at himself he’s in blue and black. He has no time to waste but he can’t help pausing, startled. This means - what, that he’s a threat to himself? But that makes no sense, given what he’s here to do. And he can’t even will himself into his false costume, which normally he can do as easily as blinking. Not that he needs to change his outfit right now, but still. He’d appreciated the sense of total control it gave him, to know that his clothes would always be whatever he needed them to be in the cognitive world. Bizarre. Annoying.
He really doesn’t want to be thinking about any of this. He gets his pistol and holster from his briefcase, checks that the gun’s loaded. He feels better with the weight of it in his hand. More secure, more focused. He can do this. He’s going to do this.
He leaves the alley. Looks around. There’s a new building, a tower, a kilometre or two north of him, taller than even the skyscrapers surrounding it. It’s pitch-black and its silhouette is shifting like fog, the way things in the cognitive world sometimes do. He holsters the gun and gets on his bike.
The building, when he gets to it, says ARCADE DEL PRINCIPE in vivid red roman letters above the entrance. Ugh. Subtle.
The inside is nothing like a real arcade, of course. It’s darker than real ones are, cavernous and empty. There are no statues, nothing ostentatious like he’s seen in other people’s Palaces; just endless arcade machines and neon-on-black and a deep background murmur - just like Mementos, right down to the firm sense that the voices are all whispering about him. There’s probably something meaningful on the game screens blaring at him, but the thought of that makes panic flutter fast in his chest, so he’s not going to stop and look, he can’t, he’s going to kill the Phantom Thieves for doing this to him and get out and it’ll be fine.
He meets a guard, finally, at the top of the first set of stairs he finds. “Master Akechi,” the masked demon says, “what are you doing here? I thought you were taking care of the intruders!”
He doesn’t have time for this. “I’m working on it,” he says. “Where are they? Up?”
“Of course,” says the demon, “but weren’t you-”
“Can you get me there any faster than I can get there myself?” Goro says sharply. (To be honest, he’s always appreciated talking to demons. He doesn’t have to hide the ice in his voice.)
“Oh,” she says. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Then shut the hell up and get out of my way.” Something occurs to him, though, before he leaves- “Why weren’t there any guards downstairs? Are they taking care of the intruders?”
“The downstairs is empty,” says the demon, blankly.
“Yes, I know, WHY.”
“It’s just empty,” she says, and this is pointless, so he just keeps going up the tower.
There are so many stairways. More and more guards as he goes higher, at least. The paths twist and turn but he feels like he knows the layout of it by - ha - by heart, already, the way you know a place you’ve never been in a dream. And even if it weren’t for that, he’s sure he could find the way by just following the trail of opened gates, or the shattered display cases where Joker’s bafflingly infallible sixth sense for loot had clearly led him.
In a dark lobby area on the fifth floor he finds… not a statue but a cheap-looking cardboard standee, just a touch larger than life, under a lone spotlight. It has a black silhouette printed on it, clearly him in the Robin Hood garb, posing like he’s on a movie poster. In tacky neon bubbles next to the image, it says:
The REAL Detective Prince!
The Bastard Rook of Tokyo!
Fine, he thinks. Sure. Whatever. Heaven fucking forbid his Palace have an inch of class to it.
He’s lost count of which floor he’s on when he turns his head and sees a woman alone in the bend of a hallway.
She’s turned away but he knows who she is, instantly. He knows every detail of her, the faded second-hand sundress and the length of her hair; the way her jaw curves like his. The way she’s lit too bright and cold for her surroundings, colours too brilliant and shadows too dark; the way she looks in the old photo he kept, the one that over the years has somehow fused with every memory he had of her.
She looks at him. Or, no - she's looking past him, into the empty corridor, like she's searching for someone else in a crowd.
He’s missed her for so long. And he knows this isn't her, he knows where he is, but something compels him anyway to call out to her. She looks straight at him when he does, and his breath catches - but then her expression changes, her eyes widen. Some kind of recognition… and she takes a step back.
"Wait," he says, hating the desperation in his voice. He can’t read the look on her face; apprehension, fear? He holds his hands up placatingly, like he’s approaching a skittish animal. Takes a few steps forward. "Wait, please." He just wants to hear her voice again. He just wants her to smile at him.
But even as he speaks she's turning away, walking quickly, glancing over her shoulder at him. She rounds the corner. He can't help himself - he runs after her.
She's completely gone by the time he gets there, of course. But after all, she was only an echo, a creation of his cognition, not even a ghost. He shouldn’t want to see her; there was nothing she could tell him that wasn’t already in his mind.
Goro pulls one of his gloves up and digs his teeth hard into the flesh of his wrist until he feels calmer.
Then he looks around. He’s getting closer to them, he knows it; there’s still time. Fucking focus. There’s another staircase here, and, on the top landing, a single arcade cabinet and a closed mechanical gate. Every other gate he’s seen has been wide open; maybe the Phantom Thieves had missed this area (although given Kurusu’s insistence on thoroughness that didn’t seem likely), maybe it had just shut itself behind them. Who cares? As long as it kept taking him upstairs it didn’t matter.
The machine, like all the rest of them, looks like it’s some bootleg Star Wars rip-off, all starry speckles and primary-coloured lasers over black, just off-brand enough to maybe avoid litigation if it were in the real world. He walks up to it. It’s cycling through attract mode but seems to react to his presence as he approaches - the screen goes black, and then flashes a top scores display.
It’s not like a real one. There’s only three entries, three names fully written out next to pixel art representations:
- Akira Kurusu ＼(★^∀^★)／
- Masayoshi Shido (ノ_<。)
- Goro Akechi (ಥ﹏ಥ)
PRESS ‘START’ !!
For a moment Goro is just fucking done. He’s had it, had it with Joker being alive, had it with this Palace, the idea of his enemies tramping through his subconscious. He feels unsteady, he’s been too focused for too long; he feels like he’s on the verge of absolutely losing it. But he doesn’t have a choice, so he steps forward, steels himself.
The floor shakes. Once. Twice. The screen goes blue. “No,” he says, “no no no no no -”
The world falls apart.
After the fight, after the armoured monster that was Akechi collapses and dissolves, all that's left is Akechi's Shadow, on the ground, sobbing like a little kid.
They stand there for a minute in shock, watching him, before Ann says, "This sucks.”
Akira turns and looks at her. She’s staring at Akechi with the expression of someone who’s just smelled rotten milk, her arms folded tight. "This all just freaking SUCKS,” she says. “We shouldn’t have wasted time on him. He's been killing people! For years! He murdered Haru’s dad just WEEKS ago and now he's just snivelling on the floor. Haru and Futaba were right, we don’t need his help, he’s PATHETIC."
Before Akira can say anything - and what is he going to say, he gets her point, but he feels... - before that, Akechi (though it's not Akechi, he reminds himself, it's just a twisted echo of his desires) lets out what might be a sob or a laugh and says, "You're right."
Akira looks at him. His hair is in his face, his nose running, a bruise raising under his eye. He speaks like he’s spitting blood. "I'm a monster, a miserable rabid beast. I'll do anything if you don't stop me. Just kill me and let it end." He laughs again, clearly definable as a laugh this time, though it's hoarse and loud and nothing like the way his laughter sounds in real life, and adds, "I'd do the same for you."
"Oh my god," says Ryuji. "Oh my GOD, dude, we are OBVIOUSLY not going to do that, are you KIDDING."
Akechi... looks at Akira. Desperately. Like he thinks Akira might do it, or has the power to, what, authorise it? It's disturbing.
Akira says, as firmly as he can, "We're definitely not doing that. We’re sticking to the plan," and moves to go get the treasure, the rest of the group ahead of him. But as they leave, Akechi grabs his coattails and says in a thick whisper, "Please, Joker."
Akira doesn't know what to say. He looks down at him. The rest are ahead now, they'll notice that he's lagging behind in a minute. Akechi looks small, terrified, so much like a lost child. It's strange to realise that he's never seen a genuine expression on Akechi's face in real life. Never seen a genuine expression on Akechi's face, ever, because this isn't Akechi, but it feels so much like how he must actually be.
"Please,” Akechi says, “don't do this, I'll have nothing left if you do this."
Akira shouldn't want to talk to him but he finds himself kneeling next to him anyway. "If we do what?" he says, softly, so the others won't hear. He's not sure why he cares. "Get you to start treating people like people?"
This close, he can tell that Akechi is trembling hard. He can hear the ragged intake of his breath. "My whole life," he says, "was about - proving everyone wrong - getting strong enough to make everyone who discarded me regret it - but they were right, you were all right. I..." He trails off, and then repeats, staring straight Akira's eyes, his voice cracking, "I'll have nothing. I'll BE nothing."
Their faces are so close. Akechi's Shadow's eyes are inhuman and frightened and huge. "You didn't have much to begin with, if that's true," says Akira, as gently as he can.
Akechi’s face contorts into the most miserable smile Akira’s ever seen. “No shit, asshole,” he says, but not aggressively. “That’s WHY I’m - I'm fucking begging you, don't do this to me." He grabs Akira's hand suddenly with both of his. His palms are clammy and his grip is far too tight. His face is soaked. "You know we're the same, you have to see it too, you must understand what this will do to me. Please just kill me, please."
Akira feels frozen in place.
"Joker, we have to hurry it up," comes Morgana's voice from ahead of them. ("What's he even doing?" he hears Ryuji say. "Shh," says Makoto.)
Akira takes a deep breath and pulls his hand out of Akechi’s grip. "I'll help you,” he says. “It'll be fine. I promise." He expects... something positive, at least, but instead Akechi's eyes narrow in suspicion. He recoils, curls up in on himself, and stares cold and hard at Akira.
The last thing Akechi's Shadow says to Akira is, "You're so full of shit, Joker."
Akira swallows hard. Then he stands up and walks away and doesn't look back.
Goro lands on his ass in the same alley he’d come in from, painfully but safely and completely alone. He’s in the real world. They’d done it. He’d failed. He hadn’t even seen them.
He looks at his hands, watches them tremble. Clenches them. Hits the ground once, twice, again, as hard as he can, harder, so hard it feels like his bones will shatter, until he can’t do it anymore and then he covers his mouth as firmly as he can and he screams.
Then it passes.
Since Goro was a child, he felt, sometimes, removed from the world. Like his eyes can’t quite focus right, like he’s been separated from everything by a pane of glass only he can sense; like nothing outside him is real, no matter how bad it is. (Like nothing inside him is real, either; he’s only a camera, recording everything without emotion, waiting it out.) It used to frighten him but he learned to welcome it. To use it.
So, now: he feels distant, and disoriented, and shocked. That’s all.
He makes himself stand up. Wavers unsteady on his feet. Thinks, suddenly, although he thought he couldn’t think when he was like this - of petty cruelties, lives ruined and lost, stupid twisted scheming. All he’d ever been.
Ah. It’s starting, then.
Goro watches himself vomit on the ground and stagger to his bike. He goes home.
It’s the next morning when someone starts banging on the door to Goro’s apartment.
He doesn’t move. He’s been huddled on the floor in front of the television all night, letting the sound drone meaninglessly. He’d turned it down when the neighbour banged on the wall, turned it up again when he heard her leave for work; it doesn’t make him feel better either way but it beats being left alone with the litany of offenses that keep parading through his head.
His gentleman caller doesn’t seem dissuaded by the lack of response. “Akechi,” he says from the hall, “I know you’re in there, I can hear the TV. Open the door.”
Goro thinks about the last time he saw Kurusu’s face. (What he’d thought was Kurusu’s face.) The absurd amount of blood in a human head. The strange, cold mix of satisfaction and disappointment he’d felt at the time - that this was it, it was over, they were done with each other. He feels sick again.
Kurusu must be just delighted to have pulled all of this off.
“I’m not leaving until I talk to you.”
Goro does not want to see that smug fucking face but something compels him to stumble over to the door anyway. Maybe it’s the only way to get rid of him. He leaves the chain on the door, opens it a crack, and says, “You won, so leave me the hell alone.”
He tries to slam it, but Kurusu has already wedged the toe of his shoe into the gap. Goro sees him wince delicately at the pressure but all he says is, “I brought you curry.”
Of course he did.
Goro closes his eyes, leans into the doorframe, and tries to modulate his voice. “Why are you here, Kurusu? To rub my nose in it?”
“I needed to talk to you. And I wanted to see if you were okay. It… didn’t seem like you had anyone else who’d do that.” His tone is almost sympathetic. Goro can see the line of a mostly-healed cut on his cheek from the interrogation.
“Go to hell,” says Goro. He didn’t think he could feel even more humiliated, but here he is. He says, more to himself than anything, “I can’t believe you’re alive. I shot you.”
Kurusu just smiles - smiles! - and says, “If you let me in I’ll tell you how I did it.”
And what can he say to that? It’s a bit insulting to assume that Goro couldn’t figure it out himself, that he’s just dying to hear how cleverly he’d been hustled, but, well - he didn’t figure it out, although he would have if he hadn’t had more pressing problems. And he does need to know. So Goro stares at him for a moment (and Kurusu stares back, of course, that steady dark gaze behind almost-definitely-fake lenses, his face as inscrutable as ever) and then sighs in irritation. “Is it just you?”
“Just me,” says Kurusu, and holds his bag open in front of the door as proof. Not a magic talking cat to be seen. Great.
Goro bites his tongue hard and gives in. “Move your foot and I’ll open the door.”
He has lost so completely.
He watches Kurusu taking it all in - the tiny, sparse apartment (smaller than that awful attic of his - not unusual for Tokyo, but still, Goro had never wanted Kurusu to know about it) lit only by the blue glow of a screen and the sunlight leaking through the closed window shade. Goro’s uniform jacket is lying wrinkled on the floor next to a pile of used tissues. Goro himself must look pathetic, too: his eyes feel swollen and gluey, his nose running and raw. He wonders exactly how many of his worst secrets Kurusu must be thinking about when he looks at him.
How did you kill yourself, he finds himself wondering, without making anyone clean up after it? A river, maybe. A cliff over the sea. What else could he do to atone, to make up for it, to escape the way the world would look at him when they realized what he was?
Kurusu flips on a light and heads over to the kitchenette, pulling a plastic container out of his bag. Says, “Do you want the short version or the long?”
Goro winces in the sudden incandescent glare and says, “The short, obviously.”
“Could you turn off the TV?” says Kurusu.
“No.” Kurusu gives him a look, so Goro adds, more feebly than he likes, “I’m watching it.”
Kurusu looks flatly at the screen. “I didn’t take you for a big baseball fan.”
He’s not. The sound of it, the gentle predictable patter, makes him feel less like he’s trapped alone with his worst enemy. Second worst. Although maybe Kurusu surviving his own murder has shifted the rankings a bit. “Yeah, well. Go Swallows, right?” It’s good to know he can still lie, at least, but he can’t seem to harness the right tone anymore. His voice sounds like it’s on the verge of cracking.
“Sure,” says Kurusu, sounding deeply doubtful.
Goro slumps back down onto the floor, rests his forehead on his palm. “Just tell me.”
Kurusu gives him the whole story while he gets the meal ready. His voice is flat and calm the entire time; he doesn’t even sound a bit like he’s bragging, which makes it worse. And besides that, it’s a bit hard to concentrate on it all - not because of the stupid baseball game but because he can’t stop himself from thinking about how Akira Fucking Kurusu is currently discovering that Goro’s kitchen cupboards contain, in total, two plates, one set of chopsticks, a spoon, and two travel mugs. But he gets the gist.
The phone. The phone and the goddamn pancakes. He’s such an idiot.
When Kurusu’s done narrating, he sets a steaming plate on the table near Goro’s head, and sits down sideways in Goro’s desk chair. He hasn’t (presumably because of the chopstick situation) served any food for himself.
It smells incredible. And of course, because this week needed to get worse, something about that - maybe the impact of hearing what a fuck-up he was; maybe the indignity of this small kindness on top of everything else, like a consolation prize - makes something snap in him. He can feel his face contorting and tears, actual tears, start to brim. He covers his face with his hands in horror.
Don’t, not now, don’t FUCKING do it. The Phantom Thieves really have destroyed him. He hasn’t cried in front of another person since he was eight. He wants to wring his own neck.
“Oh,” says Kurusu behind him, because of course he noticed. “Oh. Um. Akechi-” A tentative hand on his shoulder. Goro pulls violently away and snarls, “Don’t touch me!” and then that’s it, he’s actually sobbing, doubled over and gasping for air. Everything has gone so monumentally wrong, his life is so monumentally wrong, and now all he has is the boy he’s hated and lusted after for months, back from the dead, feeding him home-made, microwaved curry.
Kurusu pulls back, hands up, apologetic. “Sorry.”
“Seriously,” Goro chokes out, “I don’t want you here. You shouldn’t want to be here, you moron, what is wrong with you? I...” He scrubs at his face furiously with the back of his hand. “All I can think about when I look at you is seeing you die, do you get that?”
Kurusu sits on the floor next to him. His voice is so, so quiet. “I do.”
“And I’d rather be brain-dead than feel this bad about it while you sit in my apartment, WATCHING.”
Kurusu doesn’t say anything.
“I don’t even understand how you did it,” Goro adds miserably when the silence becomes too unbearable. “None of you have Palaces, I checked, and the goddamn cat said you couldn’t have one if you had a Persona, so I thought I had to be fine. I thought I was so clever.” He laughs, harsh for once, the way he actually laughs when no one’s listening. It turns into a hiccup.
“It…” Kurusu sighs heavily. “We don’t know how it worked. It confused Mona a lot, if that makes you feel better. What we think happened is that… a Persona is supposed to be your true self, right? A version of you that you’ve accepted and, like, integrated into yourself. But there are some people - like me, and, I bet, you - who have more than one mask. Which means there’s other parts of your true self. That can become distorted. If that makes sense.”
Goro blows his nose, loudly. Fuck propriety. “It doesn’t. You sound like an idiot.” It’s hard to sound as withering as he’d like to, given that he’s still crying, but he gives it his best.
Naturally, Kurusu just smiles a little and shrugs. “That’s the best I’ve got.”
“Of course it is.” And honestly, it’s a pretty decent hypothesis, but Goro’s not going to tell him that.
After another silence, Kurusu leans forward and says, “Look. You do deserve to feel this bad. I’m sorry, but you do.”
Another bitter laugh forces itself out of Goro’s mouth. “Okay.”
“But you don’t deserve to be alone while you deal with it. So I’ll leave now if you want me to, but I’m coming back tomorrow. All right?”
Goro wipes his face with his sleeve and glowers at him: Great Akira the Moralizer, who knows exactly what everyone else deserves. Perfect, beloved Akira. “If I say no, will you bang on my door for an hour anyway?”
Goro sighs as dramatically as he can. “Fine. Get out.”
Kurusu nods solemnly and stands up. He looks like he’s about to say something else, or lean over to give Goro a masculine, heterosexual pat on the arm or some shit; but then he looks Goro in the eye and seems to decide against whatever it was, sliding his hands into his pockets.
Goro looks away, at the TV screen. Someone’s - scored, or whatever. Hurray.
He wants to sleep for a decade.
He turns his head just in time to see Kurusu throw Goro’s phone straight at him; somehow he manages to catch it, instead of it landing directly on his face, but it’s close. He’d turned it off and flung it at the wall hours ago, because it kept buzzing and he absolutely couldn’t deal with that. He’d kind of been hoping the impact had just broken it for good, but no such luck, of course.
Kurusu has the grace to look a bit apologetic about tossing it directly at his head, at least. He says, “You really should keep your phone on.”
“Just go,” says Goro.
Akira: i’ve never seen anyone get meaner after their heart was stolen before btw
Goro: What can I say? I’m talented.
Akira: you’re just not bullshitting me anymore. it’s interesting
Akira: see u tomorrow
Goro: I really wish you’d learn to type like a grown-up.
Akira: nite ;)
Goro: Fuck you.
For months before it happened, Goro daydreamed about killing Akira Kurusu. Not the way he was actually going to do it - the way he wanted to do it, secrecy and practicality be damned. It went like this:
You’re friends. You act like you’re slipping bits of information about yourself to him, bat your lashes and give him the big sad orphan eyes. (Everything you tell him is a lie, of course. If he knows anything real about you, that’s it, you’ve already lost.) You always stand a bit too close, lean a bit too far in, put your hand on his arm casually, like you don’t realise that it might mean something. You invite him to the movies or some shit.
And then, when this has been going on for - well, long enough, fantasies don’t really need an explicit timeline - you make your move. You find a way to be alone in that miserable attic with him and tell him something like Oh, Akira, you’re sooo special, the fact that you’ve never used a comb just turns me on so much, I can’t live with this secret eating away at me! I’m just so desperate for juvenile delinquent dick! Take me now!
(Maybe sometimes this part was a bit more earnest than that, but that’s awfully close to actually planning some kind of confession, don’t you think?)
But here is an essential part: before the idiot manages to stutter out an answer, you act all wounded again -oh Akira what was I thinking, you’d never want someone like me, I’m not worthy of you and anyway you definitely seem straight, how foolish I’ve been! Et cetera. Twist those heart strings, make him think about how bad he feels for you. Lean in just far enough that when he kisses you, he thinks it was his idea.
Don’t let it go too far yet. Leave him there to jerk off over the thought of you. (Something about this detail always got to Goro, made his toes curl.)
Play it out for as long as you want after that - you can fill in the details at your leisure. What it comes down to is the ending: straddling him on that sad little mattress, his cock deep inside you, and just as he’s about to come you wrap your hands around his throat, stare him straight in the eyes, and squeeze.
Don’t say anything. Hold him down. You’re almost the same size and build but you have surprise on your side; he’ll fight back, leave you with bruises to remember him by, but that’s part of the fun. Feel the vibrations of his larynx under your palms, watch the colour of his face change and the anger turn to fear. Let him spend those long final seconds looking at you, knowing that you beat him.
Usually that’s where it ended, but Goro let it go a bit longer sometimes: imagined Morgana, coming back from… wherever Goro’s imagination has banished him, whatever, who cares - coming back and finding him naked and stiff in his own bed. The shock and pain on his idiot friends’ faces. He could play up his own distress, maybe join the investigation? Maybe. Maybe that was a bit much.
It was overall a deeply adolescent fantasy, but hey, even Detective Princes have needs, right?
Kurusu comes by the next afternoon, like he said he would. Goro doesn’t get up when Kurusu starts knocking - thinks, bitterly, of making him wait at the door, to prove that Goro still has something resembling power in whatever this relationship is - but then it turns out he hadn’t actually locked his goddamn door the day before, so that’s a wash, and Kurusu just strolls right on in. At least it means Goro doesn’t have to get out of his futon.
Kurusu peers around the folding screen, the ugly one the previous tenants had left, down at Goro. “How are you feeling?”
He feels like he’s drowning in memories. He feels like bashing his own head in with a rock. He keeps thinking how fucking stupid he was, to convince himself that becoming Masayoshi Shido’s attack dog, his pet, doing his dirty work, was ever going to get him anything, ever going to make his life into something worthwhile. He’d felt so tangibly close to pulling off the long con, felt invincible; but why would he ever expect something to work out the way he wanted?
“I’m great,” he says. “Peachy. How are you.”
Kurusu’s doing that thing where he taps at the ground with one foot, so absently it seems like he’s not aware of it. “I got melon pan on the way here, if you want some.”
Goro is so, so tired. “Stop acting like I’m some… some wounded animal you have to feed until I get better.”
Kurusu looks at him. Goro feels like he must be thinking, Aren’t you? He says, “I told you yesterday what you wanted to know. I want to know how you’re doing. Seriously.”
“So you can report back to your little friends about it?” says Goro darkly.
Alarmingly, Kurusu seems to give that statement serious and measured consideration. “Partially,” he says after a moment. “Mostly because you’re a mess.”
Goro stares at him. Sits up. “You’re a total asshole when you want to be, Kurusu, do you know that?”
Kurusu tilts his head to the side a little. “I really don’t mean to be,” he says, and honestly that’s hard to fucking swallow, but. Well. Remember who he’s talking to.
Goro rolls away onto his side and covers his head with his pillow, as pointedly as he can. After a moment he hears the sound of Kurusu’s footsteps moving away. Good. Fuck off.
He wants to try to go back to sleep, but he knows there’s no point; he could barely sleep all night, despite how desperately he wants to. He’s not going to be suddenly able to relax now that Joker of all people is wandering around doing god-knows-what in his apartment. Even normally, he can never fall asleep when anyone else is around.
Still. It’s not like he wants to get up, either. So he closes his eyes and keeps thinking about Kurusu.
Goro has wondered a lot - more than he probably should have - what could have possibly made Kurusu the way he is. Not just what made him an intolerable busybody, so convinced that there's a right side to justice and he's on it (though Goro certainly wonders about that too), but - where did that preternatural calm come from, the cool predator stare? Goro knows a thing or two about facades, and as far as he can tell, that part of Kurusu isn't one. He’d made that clear in the interrogation room: take Joker’s mask off and you’ll still have Joker.
No wonder Kurusu saw through Goro so quickly. Goro had thought he was so special, the smartest guy in any room, a real life chosen one, but the idea seems so ludicrous to him now; he'd only ever grasped a fraction of the strength Kurusu so nonchalantly wielded. (Because Goro's pathetic, a monster, disposable trash -)
So how does a person, a child, get that way, in small town Kanto, with two parents? What could they possibly think of him? They’d sent him here - were they relieved to be temporarily rid of this strange force of nature in a teenager's body? Was he just a nuisance delinquent to them, ruining the family's reputation? Or did they actually love him?
And what the hell is he doing in Goro’s kitchen?
He gets up, follows the sound of running water into the kitchenette. To see-
“Are you doing my dishes?"
Kurusu turns around and says, “It was my fault they were dirty.” Which is true. “I kind of tidied up, too. I hope you don’t mind.”
Goro doesn’t have enough things for his apartment to get messy, which is sort of the point of not having things. Still. His sad little pile of tissues is gone and his jacket has been hung up, and everything else looks a bit more… arranged. It’s… nice? Really invasive and completely unnecessary. But it was nice of him.
So. Maybe he should try a bit harder. He leans against the cupboards.
“What happened to your hands?” says Kurusu - absently, but in a calculated sort of way, like he’s been waiting to bring it up. Goro looks down. They look better than they’d looked the day before, but they’re still a bit bruised and scraped from hitting the ground. He hadn’t realised it was very noticeable to other people.
“I fell,” he says, which is the most transparent shit in the world, but what is he going to say, I tried to follow you into my Palace and failed utterly and then lost my shit about it like a toddler? God. No. Absolutely not.
Kurusu looks a bit concerned but doesn’t pursue it, and maybe that’s what makes Goro decide to answer his question. “You… you wanted to know how I’m feeling,” he says.
Kurusu puts the towel he was holding down on the counter, and nods.
Goro takes a deep breath. He’s only saying this because there’s no one else in the world he can talk to, and because he feels so awful that if he doesn’t talk to someone he’s going to throw himself out of a window. He’s not saying it because he thinks Kurusu gives a shit about him or could possibly understand.
“When I was… when I was a kid, one of my foster families…” He’s not sure how to put it. He sighs and starts again. “They were pretty good, actually, but the woman, her father was a drunk. The nicest old man you’ve ever met when he was sober and the absolute meanest when he wasn’t.” He looks at Kurusu. He’s nodding again, which is incredibly annoying. “God, I’m not comparing myself to that part. What I mean is, he’d say all this shit one night and then the next day if anyone told him what happened he was just horrified. Legitimately, I think. Couldn’t remember it or understand why he’d said it, even though he clearly meant every word at the time.”
Kurusu says, “You feel like that.”
“Yeah. Except I remember everything I did.”
Kurusu looks thoughtful for a moment. “That was a good foster family?”
Well. What did he think was going to happen if he told anyone that shit. “Yeah, Kurusu, that’s it, you’ve figured me out. Great job. You’re the real detective here. You know that wasn’t my point.” He rubs the bridge of his nose miserably. “Shit, you’re just going to tell everyone that whole story, aren’t you.”
Kurusu says, “I’m good at keeping secrets,” like he’s fucking twelve years old and had been entrusted with the name of Goro’s first crush or something. “When I said I’d report back, I meant… generally. And I was kind of joking, too.”
Goro can’t help smiling a little. “You have a terrible sense of humour."
“No, I’m really funny,” says Kurusu, very solemnly. Goro snorts. “Are you sure you don’t want the melon pan?” he continues, holding up his bag. “I’m gonna eat it if you don’t.”
Goro’s already out of bed and talking to him, so. “Fine. Give it here.”
It’s really good. He’d barely touched the curry the other day. And apparently they’re just… hanging out in Goro’s kitchen, now, so with as much dignity as he can muster he hops up onto the empty countertop by the fridge. Watches Kurusu finish cleaning the plate and set it aside to dry. It’s not a bad sort of silence. He doesn’t mind it.
Then Kurusu turns to him and says, “I need you to tell me about Shido.”
Goro feels momentarily winded. He knew it. He knew it. Kurusu isn’t here to hear how he’s doing or keep him company. He just wants something from him. He’s exactly like everyone else in the world and Goro should know better than to be disappointed.
“You don’t need me to do anything,” he says, drawing himself up cold and stiff and as imposingly as he can. “You’re the big mastermind here, aren’t you? Figure it out yourself. You probably learned more than enough traipsing through my head, anyway.”
Kurusu’s expression has gone very still. “Calm down,” he says.
“No,” says Goro, and instantly regrets how childishly petulant he sounds, but he can’t seem to stop himself. “You just ruined my life, I’m not helping you with anything.”
“Well, you tried to kill me, so I think we’re about even.” Kurusu stands up straight from his slouch. His expression is obscured behind hair and lenses. He sounds like he’s being very careful about every word. “I’d think you of all people would want to help with this.”
Goro knows he deserves it but it sucks, it sucks, to have the murder attempt thrown in his face, like he could possibly forget that he’s a monster. It’s not even close to the worst thing he’s done. His jaw is so tense it hurts.
Kurusu says, “Whatever, dude. I thought…” He shakes his head minutely. “Whatever. We can talk tomorrow.”
He leaves. Or Goro thinks he does, until Kurusu adds from the door, sounding the most annoyed Goro’s ever heard him, “If this is your bike in the hall you’d better move it before it gets stolen.”
Goro looks at his balcony. His bike isn’t there. Shit.
“I’m coming,” says Goro, and stalks over to the door. Apparently he’d just thrown it against the hallway wall when he got back. He really doesn’t remember the process of getting home from his Palace at all. “Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?”
“Why do you think?” says Kurusu. He sighs, heavily. “Look. I get that this sucks for you. I really do. Just… could you try to think of other people for once?”
Akira Kurusu is the most self-righteous, condescending, insufferable son of a bitch Goro’s ever had the misfortune to meet. “What, like you do?” Goro spits out. “Give me a fucking break, Joker, you don’t care about people. You just want to feel superior to them.”
Kurusu looks a bit taken aback. Good. “That’s not true,” he says.
“Really?” He moves forward, gets in Kurusu’s face, exploits what little height advantage he has as much as he can. Kurusu just stares at him and doesn’t blink. “No one forced you to try to get famous off this shit. No one needed to ever hear about the Phantom Thieves, you could have done everything completely in the shadows and you didn’t. And don’t blame your goddamn friends for that, we both know who’s in charge of your little operation. Do you really, seriously think you’re all that different from me?”
Kurusu squares his jaw and says, “I’m trying to be.” He takes one deliberate step back - I’m not intimidated by you, that movement says, I’m just done with this. “See you tomorrow, Akechi. Bye.”