Chapter Text
The orchestra’s voice is a dewy yellow as the bows ride the strings. Sponsors, donors, anyone who’s got a face to recognize are waltzing across the ballroom floor, steps precise, practiced, and they smile politely whenever they’re caught spreading gossip like gospel. The hall is tall, enough to match all the zeros in their bank accounts if they were stacked on top of each other. Really, really tall.
A fleet of those practiced smiles are shot your way. Your teeth sink on your tongue to keep the flying thoughts at bay, but Akira’s well-placed hand on the small of your back reminds you that the smiles are for him. Of course they are. His teeth are a shimmering white when he wordlessly smiles back. Tentatively, hand urging you forward, you step foot in the ballroom with him at your side. Small victories.
Behind you and Akira, the rest of the Phantom Thieves naturally meld with the atmosphere—Ann being swept away by film critics; she matches their lively chatter with some of her own and an aura so bright her recent Golden Globe is dull in comparison. Yusuke admires the larger-than-life art spanning the walls of the ballroom, and the dispersion of the Phantom Thieves is immediate.
Briefly, you wonder if they were ever with you at all, but the patch of blond hair glued to Akira’s other side is a reminder that they were. Ryuji grumbles, kicks his foot over the pristine tiles, and scans the room before slipping his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t wear his gray suit. The suit wears him.
“Stinkin’ rich people,” Ryuji mutters.
You’re rich, too, Ryuji, you want to say .
The thought evaporates when a man bounds over to you, a spring in each beat of his steps and a red bowtie fastened to his neck that probably contends for most expensive thing in the room.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance!” he says, but the words fall from his lips and land on your skin when he kisses your hand. His lips are too wet, and your eyebrows pop up as you owlishly blink. With only a meager list of interviews to your name, he greets you first? Not Akira, the man whose name spans countries?
Your hands are clammy, and the words flop in your mouth.
Before you can force out a response, Akira extends his hand to the man, a strung-up smile on his face. “Pleasure to meet you, Yuuto. Your daughter is feeling better, I hope?”
Yuuto doesn’t brighten. His grin falls. The wrinkles on his forehead are like craters now, and when a server passes by with champagne flutes on a tray, he takes one reflexively, downing it. Stress drags down his face. “Very much so, Mr. Kurusu, now that the witch of a nurse is gone. You have my thanks.”
Akira, he addresses him so casually. By his first name, no less.
Letting go of Yuuto’s hand, Akira gives him a nod, his perfectly manicured black hair bouncing as he does so. “Stepping in was the only thing we could do in good conscience, Yuuto. That nurse was a threat to all her patients.”
“And if her practices couldn’t kill people, her scowl would! Yikes!” Ryuji cuts in, an easygoing smile lighting his face.
The joke falls flatter than the nurse’s victim’s hearts when they flatlined.
Yuuto coughs and glances at you before focusing again on Akira. His eyes make you want to tiptoe around the ballroom so he can’t see you.
“Regardless, you have my gratitude, Mr. Kurusu.”
A nameless group of men approaches, their eyes quick to pass over you and glue to Akira. Suits identical to each other, they can’t compete with Akira’s well put-together look. The red pins on his suit are a nice touch, too.
Ushering to them, Yuuto strings together a spiel. “These are my contacts I informed your lovely date of. I assume she relayed the information?”
You’re. Right. Here.
You spot Akira eyeing you from the side, and you know he can read your shifting face, eyebrows knitted together and mouth pursed.
“I assure you, Mr. Yamato,” you edge your way in, voice dipped in a sickeningly-sweet honey, “I did as soon as you contacted me. As the channel between the Phantom Thieves and the public, I am very good at my job.”
The pleased expression crossing Akira’s face makes your heart blush.
“Oh.” Yuuto gives you a concerned look, hand on his heart. He does a good job of faking that concern. “That wasn’t my intention, but I apologize if I offended you. Your skills are remarkable for your age.”
Before you can bite out the fact that, yes, you do have a name and that yes, your age doesn’t equal your skills, Yuuto is whisked away by the current of people in the gala. The contacts he so eagerly introduced are whispering to each other.
Akira’s hand on your back wraps around your waist as he pulls you closer, your dress shimmering under the lights as he does so. Your head rests on his chest, and his heartbeat sounds in your head—one, two, one, two, it beats. He’s warm.
“You did well,” he whispers, kissing your forehead.
He makes your strumming feelings clog in your throat, and you breathe a sigh of relief when you have his stamp of approval; it’s a bright red stamp you’d pin to your record if you could.
“I had to. You were watching.”
*
"I'd like to thank you all for joining us in celebrating this benevolent cause tonight! Our company has been hosting this fundraising campaign for over a decade now, so I'm honored to see everyone aid and support us this year! And to all our generous donors..."
"It's nice to be invited to these things, but isn't it flashy to be holding such an extravagant party to celebrate a charity event? All the money put into organizing this event could've been donated..." Ann deadpans as Yuuto runs on with his speech.
"I agree," Yusuke adds in, "The concept of this gala showcases the so-called generosity of the donors for public consumption, rather than the causes they raise the money for."
"Inari, I'm pretty sure your personal galleries are just as gaudy as this one is."
Yusuke's eyes widen in outrage, "I beg your pardon! My galleries are organized and designed with utmost class in order to showcase the true beauty of my work. The choice of frame is something that complements the art itself!"
"Yeah, yeah." Futaba eyes roll in a way that exudes the youth that makes this group so lively. "You get one art dealer and suddenly you're 'classy.' Gimme a break."
"Actually, I'm speaking with several other dealers these days. Perhaps not with contractual intentions, but they do deem my skills worthy of scouting, and they're appealing to me for use of my artwork in other mediums. One of them being a film that Ann was casted for, actually." Yusuke's haughtiness can't be detected in his serene voice, but it's strikingly clear in his posture. His head is held high, his gaze distant, as if he doesn't have time to be entertaining the worldly pleasures below him.
"Seriously?" Ryuji gulps down his third serving of horderves and drops the emptied plate onto a waiter's passing tray. "Way to go, man! You're making it big, real quick."
"I think we all are." Makoto chimes in with her calm, thoughtful serenity, "Although I was weary at first about conceding to Yaldabaoth, things have really be turning out well for... all of us."
"Got that right!" Ryuji exclaims too loudly to be appropriate during someone else's speech, "I'm being hounded down by chicks all the time, it's fuckin' crazy! Talk shows keep asking me to make appearances and crap, too. They can't get enough of me and the Phantom Thieves."
"I would still advise that you be careful when you make public appearances, Ryuji." Haru pipes up, looking every bit like the young heiress she is in her formal gown and shoulder scarf with a glass of wine cupped between her petite fingers, "It's fine to popularize the Phantom Thieves, but remember we still have to keep our methods under wraps."
"I got it, I got it." The blonde stuffs his hands in his suit pockets, sighing at the nagging reminder. You chuckle behind your hand at his inelegant presentation in a setting like this. His signature hunched posture and speaking habits have become quite the internet craze over the past year or so of the Phantom Thieves rising to world-class fame.
Akira embraces that small laugh as he tugs you just an inch closer to his side, and when you look up, you find him smiling fondly down at you. It's a small, almost innocent smile that quirks just at the corners of his lips, but it sends outstanding shudders down your spine nonetheless. Although you're unable to match his effect, you offer a small smile back.
He leans down slowly, about to offer you a kiss, when--
"--And most of all, I'd like to thank the group that really gave us the extra popularity boost this year to have raised this record-breaking amount: The Phantom Thieves!" Yuuto announces, bringing everyone's attention to the group of individuals surrounding you.
The room booms with applause and nods and smiles full of respect, admiration, gratitude. Everything that they deserve, really. "I'd like to ask the leader of our esteemed group of justice to join me up here for a few words. Mr. Kurusu Akira!"
Akira is loathe to abandon your side. The stiffness in his body communicates to you the absolute irritation he has but won't allow to pass onto his expression. Gently, he slides his hand off your hip to the small of your back once again, spoiling you with another soft peck at the top of your head to reassure you he'll be back soon.
The crowd loves him. Anyone would be stupid not to, if you're frank. His humble silence and echoing mystique draw people to him, magnetize curiosity and desire to be around him. You probably stole all the luck on this earth for this man to want you and keep you by his side.
Akira's speech is simple, calculated but natural. He only uses a small handful of words with each sentence, but they all weigh so significantly upon the audience's ears. Now that's a man of power if you've ever seen one.
A persistent buzzing rings from your clutch, so you take out your phone to see the caller ID of a familiar confidante. Quickly scoping the room to see that everyone is preoccupied in awe with Akira, you slip away from the masses towards the tall golden-framed window until you escape onto the white marble balcony.
"Mishima, what is it? You know we're at the gala right now." you assert into the phone.
"I know, I know. My bad." He doesn't sound apologetic at all, but he hasn't ever sounded anything reminiscent of humble since he published his book. "But I need to get an approval to release the details of a recent criminal whose heart was stolen. Are the others with you right now?"
You hold back an exasperated sigh, "Can't this wait until tomorrow?"
"All I need is the verbal approval from the Phantom Thieves themselves! I wanted to get started on this piece so I can make it for this issue for the upcoming month." He's gotten rather demanding since he got hired for that big-shot magazine, but you suppose he can't escape the pressure of competition, even after shooting to fame. "Come on, baby doll, just hand the phone over to them real quick, and I'll be good to go!"
"Did you really just call me 'baby doll' ?" And did he actually think it would work? The urge to roll your eyes and snuff at him tickles at you like a feather, but you will the itch away. "Whatever, I'll ask in a bit and just text you the answer. Which case are we talking about here?"
Before you can hear Mishima's answer, your vision blurs in marble white and moonlit shrubbery as you're twirled around into Akira's embrace with his one arm. The other, he uses to pluck your phone out of your hand and take over your call, "You're talking about Tengo Inc., aren't you?" Akira's voice is chilled and smooth as he speaks, but his eyes are dangerously neutral as they dig into yours. They look that much darker with the splash of red on his gloved hand that holds your phone beside his face.
You can't hear Mishima's end of the conversation anymore, but it's not like you'd be able to focus on him anyway with how close Akira has pressed himself to you. The marble of the balcony railing is large and smooth, but the press of Akira's hips against yours is strong enough to make you cry out in discomfort.
"Declined." Akira announces into your phone. You gasp, a purely reflexive catch of breath. He doesn't sound happy. "Work on your timing. And your restraint."
Slowly, he brushes your cheek with the back of his gloved fingers oh-so slowly as he places the phone down on the wide rail cap. And just as slowly, his leg comes to nestle between your thighs, catching on the skirt of the gown and pushing you further back against the railing as his foot comes to rest between the balusters.
A whimper slips out from your lips before his mouth even brushes against them. Gentle fingers lift your chin up for you to stare unabashedly into Akira's depth-less gray eyes. Your legs twitch excitedly around the thigh that's lodged between them, and your hands are clutching onto his shoulders with brazen strength.
You're gasping against his lips as he leans down lower, lower . Just a little bit closer...
Sweet, so delicately sweet, his kiss. Coated in such perfect satisfaction for your longing lips to taste. The moan you relinquish to him is loud and bold, unashamed. You realize now how tightly he's been stringing you along all evening, winding you up just so he can break you down. Brokenness never tasted so good.
He pulls away once more, making sure you're looking at him when he says, "You're no one's doll." And the faint muffled sound coming from behind you reveals to you that Akira didn't hang up. And that Mishima is still on the line.
With that realization, his next words resonate that much stronger, "No one's, but mine."
*
When you dance with Akira, when your feet feel like they ghost over the tile, or when your hand snuggly rests in his—everything is right with the world. The palaces don’t exist, the shadows are nightmares squashed by daylight, and the stuffy atmosphere in the ballroom dissipates. He cocoons you in a world specifically made for you. The hums in his throat are music to your ears. The words he lets slip are like harp strings being strummed.
He deals you affection, and—as you spin, as your dress kicks up to spin with you—you lap it up, relishing the way you both hide away from the busy world in each other. The thought of that affection stacking like a debt doesn’t cross your mind.
The orchestra plays, the other guests disappear, but as you’re mid twirl, you catch the melancholic glance Ryuji throws at you and Akira. Your eyes meet Ryuji’s and the flustered glow he tries to keep under wraps is unmistakable. His electric blue tie is the last you see of him before he sprints off to find Ann.
Akira calls your name.
You blink. You’re not sure how many times.
“Yes?” you say, attention back to Akira.
“Distracted?”
“No?”
Humming, his fingers drum on your waist, but he doesn’t say anything else. There’s an edge to his eyes as he watches you. You’re not sure if you want to fold to the pressure gliding over your skin or fake your way through it.
Your feet dance through the motions (those dance practices really, really came in handy), and the slit of your dress lets your thigh peek out. His fingers trickling up that skin, sluggishly, teasingly, is a welcomed surprise.
You decide to fake your way through the stockpiling pressure.
Yuuto’s nameless contacts make their way over, again, gradually through the next few dances. When they’re “miraculously” next to you both again, you hear a single word over and over again: investments. Looking to make a deal. Profit. And with how they’ve been vultures circling the ballroom all night, they’re definitely wanting to wiggle their way in the Phantom Thieves’ ranks.
Rumbling, your stomach flops on itself. The embarrassed heat, whether Akira can see it or not, is noticeable. The amused glint in his eyes tells you as much.
Your eyes slink over to the refreshments table. The muffins are stacked, the drinks are sparkling (even from all the way over here!), and Futaba taps away on her phone while pocketing some of the food.
“Samples,” she’d say if you questioned her, “they’re samples. For my taste buds. And stomach.”
Perfect.
“Go on,” Akira says. You don’t even need to say anything and he already knows.
“Be back in a minute!”
Giving him one last look as you dash over to the table, you swear you see the mirth in his eyes vanish in a second. The contacts hovering around him pounce as soon as you’re a step out of the picture.
You think the table is a mirage when you stand in front of it in full. The word variety doesn’t begin to describe the platters laid out, the flavors that jump out to your nose, to your eyes, making your mouth water and you gulp without realizing it.
A burst of laughter erupts next to you. Women holding their drinks, men holding their drinks, they’re all bubbling with laughter when Ryuji lets loose a whip and a nae nae for them. Their jewelry and pins may glitter, but Ryuji’s megawatt grin puts them to shame. His laugh could beat out the orchestra playing.
Then, he sees you. Then, his grin is scrubbed from his face. The way his face sinks, that melancholic expression is back. No one around him notices. They keep laughing, eyes welded shut, with tears being the only things to slip through.
No one notices. Not Futaba, whose head perks up when she reads a message on her phone, then bolting to the bathroom so quickly that she’s basically a whirlwind. Not Haru, who’s mobbed by her father’s former friends, offering their condolences when they see fit (when they think there’s an opportunity for friendship ).
Pretending you don’t notice is the easiest thing to do. Your fingers snatch a nearby muffin (golden, baked to golden brown perfection), and it’s squishy between your fingers.
It isn’t enough, unfortunately, because suddenly Ryuji is right next to you. His electric blue tie is still, well, electric; his eyes aimlessly roam over the table, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He coughs.
“. . .Hey,” he starts. He keeps his eyes trained on the table to avoid yours.
The gulp plunging down your throat is telling.
“Uh, hey?” Your feet shift awkwardly. The muffin crumbles in your hand. Oh, you’re crushing it.
He runs his hand through his hair, distressed. “Look, you know I’m not good at beatin’ around the bush.”
Are you good at beating around any bush? Maybe that’s too rude, especially when you see the nerves joyriding on his skin.
“That’s pretty obvious, Ryuji.” You put on your best adult voice, turning toward him. “What’s up?”
“You and Akira.” He tries to shake the tension out of his shoulders. “You doin’ okay?”
The question pulls a trigger in you. Your eyes are wide. Your breath caught in your throat. It sends your mind into a frenzy. A hot frenzy that shoots through all your veins, that electrocutes your brain, that paralyzes you.
“We are.” You lick your lips. “Why?”
He sighs. You feel the weight on your shoulders.
“It’s your relationship and all, but. . .” he trails of and scratches his head again. “Look, I just wanna make sure you’re in a good relationship. Nothin’ bad.”
Denial is the first stage. It’s when you want to sputter out all the half-finished thoughts in your head for some semblance of an answer. After a second, the thoughts slow down, and you’re able to pick them apart and read them. Then comes the questioning.
We are, aren’t we? We have to be. I wouldn’t let it get too far, I know it. Right? Has it gone too far without me realizing it? Maybe I should—
A familiar arm slinks around your waist.
“Everything all right, darling?” Akira’s smooth voice sails through your ears. His words use your ears like canals. You let him pull you close. The thoughts are zapped from your might at his mere touch.
“Everything’s good,” you say. You’re not sure who you say it to.
Ryuji scratches the back of his neck and doesn’t meet Akira’s piercing eyes. “I gotta, uh,” he starts, with his eyes zipping over everything, “I gotta take a leak. See you both later!” A second later and he’s gone.
“Don’t take everything he says too seriously, darling.”
The thoughts Ryuji planted in your head start to bud again. You give Akira the answer he wants to hear. “Okay. I trust you.”