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Perhaps he should have stopped to change after spending most of the morning in that cold courthouse, then stepping out into a blistering hot heat wave.
Perhaps he should have prioritized eating breakfast, or lunch, or drinking anything resembling water at all rather than spending his few spare minutes on homework.
Perhaps he should have rolled up his sleeves, or put up his hair, or just fucking gone home for the day instead of setting foot in this godforsaken fiery pit of hell masquerading as a café.
Perhaps he should have done a lot of things.
Goro takes another sip of his coffee—his hot, blistering, hellfire, death potion coffee—and hopes it will do anything to solve that awful lightheaded feeling creeping in at the edges of his vision. Amamiya Ren and Sakura Futaba are his audience for today, staring at him quietly from behind the counter of Leblanc. It’s nearly impossible to get a read on either of them… but nearly impossible is not the same as impossible.
They’re pissed he’s here. As expected.
His heart rate spikes a bit higher, no doubt due to the caffeine in this tasteless, scorching liquid, the beat thu-thu-thu-thump-ing in his ears. “It seems I’m unwelcome no matter where I go,” he tells them like he’d planned—calling out their behavior and aligning it to the… the general public’s is a reliable way to gain their sympathy… and to get some sort of conversation going.
Black and white dots fly and swarm in front of the counter. The hot soup of the August air… it’s nearly unbearable… he can barely catch his breath in it.
Amamiya is… saying something? That’s good. He needs conversation… needs it because… that lightheaded feeling…
Goro wakes up.
His head hurts.
His head hurts… and he’s horizontal. He doesn’t remember becoming horizontal. He doesn’t remember where he is, what he was doing. He doesn’t remember anything.
He doesn’t remember anything!
Terror instantly blazes through his body unchecked and unfettered. There’s a—a thing on top of him—a Shadow surely, poised to attack, ready to strike the final blow and end everything, everything, forever.
Goro kicks out as hard as he can, gets the thing off him. A moment of victory, brief respite. It’s not too large, about his size. Manageable to defend against physically, but it must have been formidable to get him downed to this point. (He doesn’t remember, doesn’t remember.) Necessary fear powers his movements, makes him stronger as he grapples his foe and turns the tides—surprisingly easily, it must have let its guard down, thought wrongly that it had won.
The fool. Goro is still alive. As long as he’s alive, he’ll fight. And he’ll win.
The Shadow squirms beneath him, shouts something in a strange language, but Goro holds it fast between his thighs, his hands an unbreakable grip on its arms. There’s another one—another one!—making noises to the side, Goro will deal with that after. He releases one of the arms momentarily to reach for the hilt of his sword so he can…
His sword.
His sword—where the fuck is his sword? Goro paws at his body in a panic. His gun? His knife? His claws, his mask, his—
“Akechi!”
Goro looks down at the sound—that was his name—and into the eyes of Amamiya Ren.
Amamiya Ren is here?
His brow is furrowed like he’s… concerned. His glasses are askew, lower down his nose than usual and crooked. And he’s on the floor. He’s pinned on the floor, between Goro’s legs.
His previous panic quickly subsides, just in time for a new panic to rise and take its place. He remembers now, remembers walking to the café he knew Amamiya worked and lived in. He was sitting down at the counter and talking with Amamiya and orange-haired Sakura. He was sitting…
This has to be a dream. Or a nightmare. He can’t have—he’ll have ruined—
Holy hell, he has to get off of Amamiya.
“I’m—” Goro tries as he throws himself backward. “Apologies,” he tries, better this time. He stands up as fast as he’s able, tries to regain any possible remaining composure. His head is killing him, pounding with every too-rapid beat of his heart, and it’s so fucking… so fucking hot in this building.
“Apologies,” he says. Again? He said it twice. And those dots—the dots appear again too, swarming his vision faster this time. The room tilts on its head and suddenly he can’t find his balance, can’t simply stand on his own two legs.
Goro reaches out to the side, that small part of his vision yet unobscured by encroaching blackness yielding something to grab onto—the edge of a counter, back of a chair, something. It’s something.
“Whoa,” a deep voice says. “Hey.” A strong, bracing force captures him under his arms and holds him there, far better than Goro’s weak grip on this rickety chair. Goro leans into the body holding him, finding comfort in his pleasing scent, the hypnotizing shape of the black curls in front of Goro’s nose.
Until his senses return to him once again.
“Fine—I’m fine,” Goro heaves out. And he is. That lightheaded feeling is receding, the accursed dots fading out of sight again as Goro finally, truly feels like he’s got his footing.
“Nope,” Amamiya says.
He’s still holding him, like Goro is some kind of pathetic baby deer instead of a full grown man three centimeters taller than Amamiya. Three centimeters! And instead of simply letting him go, like he should, like he would of someone who’s his equal, someone he respects—instead Amamiya steers him at a snail’s pace toward an empty booth.
Goro frees himself the instant he’s able, scoots himself into the bench just as Amamiya so clearly wishes him to. He’ll entertain these people, for now. Amamiya doesn’t join him in the booth either which is good, because Goro would sooner die than face him again. Or maybe he could simply kill Amamiya instead, that would work just as well.
(Shit. No, he can’t do that, he’s not a psychopath. Amamiya’s being… nice, he supposes. Unless he has an ulterior motive, which he almost certainly does, but ugh. Goro’s head hurts too much for this right now.)
He’s shown quite enough weakness today so he allows himself a bit more, resting his throbbing forehead in his hands for just a moment.
How the hell did any of this happen?
Does he have cancer? Is he dying? He’s dying, isn’t he? This is surely the first sign of something truly terrible. He can’t die yet—but shit, he doesn’t know his family medical history at all. There’s got to be something wrong with him, wrong with his brain, and to find out here? Here, with these people, of all places?
“Vasovagal syncope.”
Goro looks up. Finds the orange one sitting across the booth, examining him with creepily wide eyes like he’s a zoo animal. “Excuse me?”
Amamiya returns and places a clear glass of ice water down right in front of Goro. He doesn’t move to sit down, though. Just stands there, looming over him.
“Vasovagal syncope,” Sakura repeats. Slower, like Goro is stupid. “You fainted. Because your brain had no blood in it. Or, not enough blood, there was probably still some blood in there. Maybe.”
“Is your head okay?” Amamiya asks.
“My head?”
“You fell off your chair,” Amamiya pushes his glasses up his nose, which only makes his unmitigated staring that much more direct. “I couldn’t get around the bar in time to catch you.”
“My head is fine,” Goro says quickly. It’s pounding and aching and generally not fine and just simply awful, but he’s had worse and survived it before. It’s no one’s business but his own.
Amamiya might be convinced. Or maybe he’s not—Goro just can’t tell. He’s infuriating in that way.
No matter his true thoughts, Amamiya reaches down to the table and nudges the glass of water. “Drink.”
This is the worst day of Goro’s life, and he’s had some terrible fucking days.
Goro drinks.
They both watch him do it, like a pair of four-eyed vultures.
“This happened to me before. Genetically predisposed, like a myotonic goat,” Sakura says, as she contorts her body within the booth to somehow sit on her heels, her knees drawn up to her chest. “I diagnose you with dehydration and poor choices in fashion.”
“Excuse me?” Goro asks. He looks down at his outfit—as if he should be taking any shit from this strange child in some kind of Tetris tank top and pants three sizes too large. His clothes are perfectly respectable.
“It’s hot outside,” Amamiya explains.
“It’s hot inside,” Goro counters. He pulls at his sweater vest, self-conscious about it now and all too aware of how much he’s sweating. “Can’t you open a door? A window? Have any fans in here at all?”
“Fan’s broken,” Amamiya says. “Drink the water.”
Goro glares at him, then remembers he probably shouldn’t be glaring at him because he’s been working for three months to charm this guy and all his work might have already been undone by his stupid, careless, short-sighted actions here today. He chooses to roll up the sleeves of his accursedly thick (it was expensive and worth the price) long-sleeved shirt to give himself some time to think. God, it really is fucking hot in here. It’s ridiculous.
“I had a full day at the courthouse, a building which fortunately and, apparently, unfortunately for me, has an abundance of air conditioning. Additionally there is a dress code I must abide by, you understand.” And only then does he take another sip of that sweet, refreshing, cold, life-giving water.
“Do you want a shirt?”
Goro looks up at Amamiya in the middle of a sip.
“I have shirts,” Amamiya says, as if it’s some kind of wild revelation for any of them to learn that he owns clothes. “You said we’re the same size, right?”
“You’re… offering me a shirt,” Goro repeats. He glances at Sakura—the girl’s gone quiet now, watching their conversation like it’s a television show.
This is a test.
If he declines like he wants to, he’ll maintain the status quo. Maintain another of the very important walls between them, one that Amamiya nearly broke down completely during that incident at Miel et Crêpes. But most of all, if Goro declines then he will continue to be stuck in this awful prison of cotton and wool.
However, if he accepts, he’ll be… he’ll be stuck in Amamiya’s clothes, whatever the hell that could end up being. It could be awful. It could be worse than the childish shit Sakura’s wearing. And additionally, Goro will owe him something—something even more than he already owes, considering the rest of today’s events that he hasn’t even begun to parse.
But… he’ll also have a reason to come back. He’ll have to return the clothes.
And perhaps Amamiya is counting on him declining. Perhaps he’s simply being polite. Calling him on his bluff could throw him off his guard. It could put Goro on top again, where he belongs.
Yes, that’s it. That’s his move.
“Your boldness always surprises me, Amamiya-kun,” Goro says, feeling a bit better now, more like himself. Even his head is clearing up now. He takes another drink of water, this time by his own choice. “I would greatly appreciate it if I could take you up on your offer—that is, if you have anything to spare. As you can imagine, these clothes aren’t quite as suitable as I’d hoped for any building other than Tokyo High Court.”
“Are you allergic to cats, Ace Detective Akechi?” Sakura asks.
Okay, a not-so subtle indication from her that she’s aware of who he is without any introduction. Not sure about the cat thing, but whatever. “I am not, Futaba-chan,” he says to even the score.
Yeah, he knows about her too.
“Oh—Sae-san told me about you,” he adds, an easy lie in response to her furrowed brow, then turns back to Amamiya. The one that matters. “I hope you don’t mind, she was the one who told me about this café in the first place. I would never have thought you’d be boarding here… we seem to share some kind of bond,” he smiles, as gorgeous as he can make it, a real winner of a smile, then tips his water glass in sarcastic acknowledgement of the day’s events. “How lucky am I?”
Amamiya angles his head down bashfully, taps a foot against the ground—an obvious tell. Goro wins.
“From where I was on the ground it seemed like you could fend for yourself just fine.”
Shit. Amamiya wins. Goro loses. In the aftermath he’d completely forgotten about his little show on the floor.
“Ha ha,” Goro chuckles lightly, mind moving a thousand miles a minute. He can fix this. He’s fixed worse. Probably. “It looks like I took my mandatory self-defense training a little too seriously,” he improvises, knowing that it’s highly unlikely that Amamiya would ever discover that SIU interns have no such required training. “And I truly do apologize—all I can say is I doubt it will ever happen again.”
To emphasize his point Goro drains the rest of his glass, then looks up at Amamiya expectantly. “Now. I believe I was promised a shirt?”
Amamiya Ren’s attic is awful.
Despite the open window and what seems to be the tiniest fan in the world, it’s even hotter than the café downstairs. The whole place has the air of a futile battle for cleanliness and civility, but considering the amount of dust and out of reach spiderwebs still coating the “room,” Amamiya’s been about as successful as a pig trying to have an especially clean mud puddle.
The “couch” is an old booth seat too destroyed for even the low standards of this café’s proprietor. The “bed” is pathetic, just unspeakably bad. The “plant” looks like it’s been recently revived from certain death and is actively furious about the prospect of remaining alive.
“What a charming little room,” Goro says.
Amamiya doesn’t comment. He strides over to a big cardboard box on a shelf and starts rifling through it.
Is that… where he keeps his clothes?
Fuck it, whatever. It’s just as sad as the rest of this place. Goro shrugs off his sweater vest in a hurry and folds it. He has a brief argument in his mind, a quick pros and cons list, then decides that the top of the old television set is the most acceptable place to put his clothes while he changes. It’s not too dusty.
He’s making quick work of his button-up when Amamiya finally tosses him… what seems to be a normal black T-shirt. Yes, that’s acceptable enough. Thank god. No logos or graphics or anything stupid on the front, though there are—ah, yes. That makes sense now. A few bits of cat fur are stuck on it.
The cat itself must be out somewhere, or hiding. It is living in a café, after all. Disgusting.
Goro finishes with the buttons, takes off and folds his own shirt, and feels immeasurable relief at getting that damned thing off of him. The attic is still sweltering but having his skin exposed to the air is working wonders for his body temperature already.
“There’s a feeling of coziness and authenticity here that boutique hotels spend countless dollars attempting to replicate,” Goro says, since their conversation seems to have come to a halt before it could even begin. “You must feel fortunate to have found such a place. Have you lived here long?”
Goro checks for a label to make sure he won’t look like any more of an idiot today, wearing a backwards shirt. He’s about to pull it on when he realizes it’s been quite long enough and Amamiya hasn’t answered him.
“Amamiya-kun. How long have you boarded here?”
The shirt goes on. Goro mourns the loss of cooler air against his skin, but it’s not like he can go walking around the city shirtless. His “fans” would maul him.
“A few months,” Amamiya finally deigns to reply. “April. Since April.”
“Well, it seems as though you’ve made yourself at home.” He tucks the shirt in, then does a little stretch just to make sure everything stays in place. It fits well and seems to work. “What do you think? Does that look alright?”
“Is it possible for you to look bad?”
Oh! Well, that was unexpected. He can’t help but burst into laughter, preening a bit at the compliment. It’s always nice to learn that one’s efforts are paying off, after all. “That’s very kind of you to say, but you’d be surprised. You should see me early in the morning.”
“If you’re offering,” Amamiya fires back with a smirk.
Again! An excellent retort. Goro had forgotten how pleasing Amamiya is as a verbal sparring partner. He plays the part of one of Goro’s lascivious fans masterfully. Quite the joker, indeed.
“Be careful, Amamiya-kun, or I might think you’re serious,” Goro teases, adding a trademark wink for flavor. He’s not going to let this dusty attic-dweller get the best of him, after all.
He grabs his clothes off the television set and heads downstairs to get out of the sweltering heat of this room. It should be simple enough now to hide his shirt and vest in his suitcase, make his way home, then throw everything in the laundry. A fitting end to a pointless day.
God, he hopes he doesn’t ever faint again. He’ll have to do some research on the subject later. He’s certainly not going to trust the diagnosis of some random shutaway teenager. Speaking of—
“Whoa. That’s weird,” Sakura says as soon as she sees them. “Characters aren’t supposed to change their clothes mid-episode.”
“Excuse me?”
“How am I supposed to believe you’re a goody two-shoes boy detective if you’re not wearing argyle?”
Goro opens his mouth, but he’s not entirely sure how to respond to that.
“She’s teasing you,” Amamiya says helpfully.
“Yup.” Sakura rocks innocently on her heels, then holds out an unopened bag of Jagariko. “Here. It’s on the house as long as you don’t tell Sojiro.”
Goro takes it carefully. He is… yes he is hungry, after all this. Shit, he’s starving. “Thank you.” He places the bag in his suitcase, along with his folded clothes, but makes a mental note to take it back out and devour it the instant he’s out of sight of the café.
“I’m afraid I must be going now—I’ve spent more time here than I planned already,” Goro lies, checking his watch for emphasis. He bows slightly at Amamiya and Sakura. “Thank you again for your assistance. I promise I won’t be quite so troublesome the next time I come here.”
“Psh,” Sakura scoffs. “Don’t say you’re sorry for not being boring.”
“So you’ll come back?” Amamiya asks—hopefully? As if… he really does want Goro to come back?
And he… means it. Sakura too, waiting eagerly for an answer.
After everything Goro did—causing a quite a ruckus, requiring help from Amamiya and then assaulting him, taking food and drink and even his own clothes. Goro provided absolutely nothing of value to either of them. And yet here they are, clearly more amiable towards him than when he arrived.
It’s strange. It makes no sense. And it will require more study, more datapoints. How… exciting.
“Of course,” Goro smiles. “I think I’ve found my go-to café.”