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Akira doesn’t know when it started, to be honest. Everything that happened the night of the 20th is a muddled, sickly blur and everything beyond that just melds together. Fascinating, isn’t it? The flow of time… syrupy slow whilst being interrogated or while counting the hours away in his room-turned-prison. So viscous it’s like the minutes don’t even tick away at all. He hadn’t realised just how little there was to do in Leblanc until being forced to stay within it.
Barely a week has gone by and Akira’s already torn through all the manga Ryuji has brought over; there’s no infiltration tools that need to be made, as his past self thought it wise to stock up plenty during school hours. Sure, this has left him lots of time and many larger books to read, (Thank you, Makoto) but try as he might, Akira just can’t sit down and focus. Earlier on he’d attempted to pace while reading, to allow his brain some kind of faux-stimulation that the inked words couldn’t provide, but it aggravated his sensitive injuries and he got quite the scolding from Sojiro about it. Sitting still isn’t Akira’s forte. He seems plenty patient in a palace while waiting to strike a shadow, but that’s mere minutes. This? This tortuous endeavour has lasted days and within the first few hours of being on his own Akira already knew he’d hit his limit. He’s always been an active person, always felt the restless urge in his veins to get out and go— he’s seriously kicking his past self for ever whining over his restrictive curfew, as what he’s dealing with now is way worse. Akira would do anything to be able to leave and go where he pleases, but it’s just too risky.
The others have reasoned that since Akechi saw his corpse, no one would be out looking for him and he’d partially agreed at first, allowing himself the trek to Untouchable to stock up on the new December gear. That alone filled him with immense paranoia though, unable to stop himself from checking over his shoulder every other step. This was their one shot at taking down Shido and Akira wasn’t about to ruin it because of some selfish stir-crazy desires.
But...
But.
Perhaps he might be willing to reconsider.
It’s not that he thinks he’s crazy, it’s just that Akira thinks he’s starting to see things— hear voices, even. It started out in his dreams at first, fragments of a conversation he couldn’t quite wrap his head around. Something he’d easily brush off as an average dream or maybe even a short Velvet Room visit. (Discounting the fact that he’d never been a dreamer and as far as he’s concerned, Akira has never forgotten a trip to that horrid cell.) However… it kept going. Murmurs like those within Mementos tickled his ear and persisted even after he snapped at Morgana to cut it out. Eventually it began to feel like Akira wasn’t alone in Leblanc— which should’ve terrified him, made him feel the same ice-cold dread he felt when the men in suits dug their knees into his back and unloaded a briefcase by his side and it finally clicked in Akira’s head what they were going to do with him.
…But it didn’t. He felt no dread, no fear or at least not like that. When the shadows moved and curled in the corners of his vision, when they rearranged themselves at night to form a towering presence, he didn’t worry at all. It didn’t bring him terror… the presence almost felt comforting; until Akira realised that was an insane thought. Now, the shapes mostly just bring discomfort due to the fact that the leader of the Phantom Thieves is losing his mind and can’t even do anything about it. He’d tried to confide in Futaba, as he knew she’d be the most understanding, but she’s been so busy with some special project of hers Sojiro says she’s only come out of her room to bathe and eat. Her texts in the groupchat are sparse and Akira would be a hell of a lot more worried if not for Sojiro checking in on her to save his sanity. (Assuming he still has any). A few nights he’d almost mustered up the courage to talk to Morgana, even. It was always easier with him in the quiet of the attic, feeling his comforting weight on his chest and lulling him into a softer state of mind. Except every time he’d try to speak out something… something just stopped him. He’s been vulnerable with Morgana before. This time shouldn’t be different and yet… Akira just couldn’t bring himself to start the conversation. He’s just fine.
He’s just still feeling the effects of the serum or his painkillers.
He’s just seriously good at putting off alarming trains of thought.
Was he afraid he’d be denoted? Benched during Shido’s palace in favour of Makoto or someone else who had a clearer state of mind? If he was a good leader, he’d probably agree with such thoughts, putting his team’s best interest before anything else. Something in him compels to disagree with it on principle though— Akira has to— he has to be there. Has to see that sick bastard face to face and make him pay for what hell he’s wrought unto this earth.
The face on the old TV nods its head, a humming assent that crackles in the back of Akira’s skull like static. When did he turn it on? Does it matter? Not really, he thinks. All that matters is that his injuries need to hurry up and heal so he can get out there and— Akira sits up in bed, rolling away from the wall to look at the black screen of the TV perched innocently on its table. A dream, just a dream; the attic is the same as it’s always been, quiet save for the thrumming in his head and the soft flickering huffs coming from the space heater. Said space heater was a very much appreciated gift from Sojiro, but Akira really wished his caretaker had said something about it beforehand. Waking up to the strange noises it produced was certainly alarming. Even now it sounded a bit like wheezed breathing. Even now, fuelless as it was, coals dimly simmering out against the cold morning light.
A puff of breath against the nape of Akira’s neck sends him reeling backwards out of bed onto the floor. Sharp pains wrack his body from the impact and Akira curls in on himself, hissing out to no one in particular. His ribs still ache from where he was kicked and a dull pulse courses through his limbs, reminding Akira that he still has a long way to go in terms of recovery. From his spot on the floor though, he can see that his window is slightly ajar. Morgana must not have been able to close it after sneaking out. Figures. He can’t be too mad about it, given that the guy doesn’t have thumbs or hands, but he’s definitely going to give the cat an earful about it anyway for spooking him like that. Akira gives himself a couple more minutes to stew in his annoyance and to wait out the ebbing throb in his thigh, before crawling up onto his feet. It’s pretty early, but he figures it’d be best to just wake up and start the day.
Making his way down the stairs with a yawn, he counts out the familiar creaks in the floorboards. Today he hears six, which is notable to him since there’s usually only three. He’s heard that wood shifts when temperatures change though and with this recent cold snap he’s not too surprised. Akira lumbers across the floor to the front of the shop, stopping at the front door to peer out the glass. Crystals of frost blossom around the outer edges of the glass and Akira’s breath fogs up the inner ones he’s trying to look out of. He rolls down the sleeve of his sweater and wipes it away, freezing up for a moment when he thinks he sees a man in a black trenchcoat standing outside. There’s no one there of course, Akira’s just paranoid as he’s always been. He huffs out a breath, watching the way the vapour dances in the light before he turns to his left to glance at the Sayuri. Akira shrugs at her and mutters out “Can you believe this?” As if she’d respond. She obviously doesn't, because she’s not a real person and Akira is alone.
With that little game over and done with, he flicks on the cafe’s lights and begins to brew some coffee. Not the best beverage for a recovering criminal, but it’s comforting and something he actually wants to make. At a time like this, as their invisible deadline of rearrest hangs over his head, it almost reminds Akira of his first week here. All of it feels vaguely familiar; the threat of imprisonment, the secretive brewings and meetings, the loneliness, but most curiously, the lack of loneliness too. Discovering Kamoshida’s castle gave him friends unlike any he’d had before. There’s something about near-death experiences that really bring people together. On top of that, it allowed him to meet Arsene too.
Arsene, his Persona, was a strange presence to awaken to. Days after tearing off that mask of his, Akira still felt the burning within to continue tearing it off. There was nothing left to grab and the feeling went away after a while, so he brushed it off as his body not being used to the Metaverse yet. Now though, he wonders if that was really the case. Hunched over the counter as he is, Akira feels a familiar itching around his eyes that quickly turns into a sharp pain, as if something was forcefully being pulled off his face. He gasps out in pain, reaching up to claw at his mask or soothe the pain maybe, but all his hands feel is his regular skin and not the cool smoothness of Joker’s mask. If anything, his skin feels warmer than normal. A fever maybe? With the state that he’s been in as of late, it’d be no surprise if he caught something, as frustrating as that would be. Another sharp pain greets Akira and he stumbles back from the counter, curling in on himself with a groan and blearily looking forward.
There’s blood all over the counter, he finally notes. The warm feeling against his skin, dripping down and spreading all over, is instantly registered as what it truly is. Akira doesn’t need to glance downwards to guess his pyjamas have been stained too. Suddenly, he feels a bit light-headed. How long has he been standing there? How did he not notice it? The burning sensation continues as he props himself up against the wall and Akira thinks his head might have actually split open. What other explanation is there? Uncaring of any potential handprints he might leave and the consequence of having to explain them to Sojiro, (If he even lasts that long) Akira slowly pulls himself towards Leblanc’s sink. There’s a mirror there and perhaps he can wash his wound to prevent infection. Unsteady hands smear against white porcelain, desperate to turn on the tap. He misses once, twice, focuses on the way his blood rolls down into the drain of its own accord like it’s attracted to it, and finally grips the handle, turning it to release a steady stream that washes away the taint.
Clean hands are brought under the stream and Akira scrubs them incessantly, watching as the water turns no clearer than the muddied colour it already is. Is it not coming off? He still feels the thickly sticky texture coating his fingers as he pulls them back to grip the sink sides. The porcelain feels slippery beneath his touch and Akira sways as another bout of pain washes over him. His knees feel weak and he’s eternally grateful that most of his workouts focus on upper body strength as surely that’s the only thing keeping him up right now. He should’ve stayed in bed, he should’ve told the others that he’s not ready to take on Shido’s Palace, as much as he hates the thought. Akira crumples to the floor, hacking out what feels like more blood and feeling his chest constrict as if someone’s arm had wrapped around it and begun to pull him upwards. Right. His face. Despite his body’s painful protests, Akira forces himself back up, leaning heavily onto the sink. He needs to see the wound, he needs to see how bad it is. Needs to see if he can fix it.
With his full weight on the sink, Akira’s finally able to stand and look into the mirror, coming face to face with himself.
Almost.
Behind the pane of glass staring down at him is him, but not quite. The man in frame dons Joker’s mask, attire, and beloved grin; a stark contrast to his own miserable state. Despite the grin, it’s expression is bleak somehow, like it’s angry. At what? Akira hasn’t done anything wrong aside from technical acts of terrorism. Why would his reflection— his shadow?— hold ire towards him? Gilded eyes bore into him and Akira cannot suppress a shiver. Is this what an enemy shadow sees before they die? Is this what his teammates see? No wonder they speak as if Joker and Akira are separate people; if it weren’t for the fact that this thing looks like him, Akira wouldn’t believe it was.
…And maybe it isn’t. Akira’s seen himself as Joker in reflections across the different Palaces they’ve visited. His reflection has always been him, except freer, looser, maybe even more unhinged. He’s always sure it’s still him though, never sees it make a face that he wouldn’t. The face that this thing wears appears like Joker’s, but it’s stretched over far too tight–- pinched at the corners of his grin and starting to tear. It looks maniacal, barely suppressed wrath threatening to cleave skin.
Has this been the thing haunting him? Akira hasn’t felt any fear for it and its actions, but now that he’s come face to face with it–- with him. He’s not so sure. Anxiety bubbles in his chest and his first worry that comes to mind is Sojiro and Futaba. If he dies here, they’d be the first to discover his mangled corpse and the bloodied surroundings. He can’t do that to her-– can’t die here before making things right. He’s the leader of the Phantom Thieves and they need—
Akira’s own chuckles break him out of such thoughts. He can’t tell if it came from him or the mirror. The reflection finally moves to place its gloved hand against the glass. Akira desperately wants to tear his gaze away, squeeze his eyes shut and pretend like none of it’s real, but can’t find the strength to beneath that thing’s resentful gaze. Belatedly, he notices something behind the reflection moving and writhing, like it’s bound. No matter how hard he stares, Akira can’t tell what it is. It almost reminds him of Mementos; how the strange growths littered about pulse and move as if alive. This is different though, as the thing behind his reflection bares no traces of a bright bloody red, only slick black feathers that bring Arsene’s wings to mind. Iridescent feathers and then—
For a single glimpse, Akira catches what he believes to be a mask. Glistening ivory that pierces the darkness around it, foreign in nature, its light tone almost uncanny against all the black. It shifts in that brief moment, feathers warping and wings bending, inviting Akira to look again, to grasp what the owner of such a crimson gaze truly is.
T’was not a mask, but a face.
Akira feels as though he is the prey in this situation. There is no escape, only the assurance that he’ll keep tumbling down and down, further drawn into its pull. Akira’s lips move, they move, but he doesn’t speak. His bare hand is pressed against the pane, palm resting on the warm leather of his reflection’s gloved one. The figure’s mouth opens and Akira’s lips tremble, stumbling over silent vowels again and again as they’re forced to move along and repeat his reflection’s words.
I–AM–THOU—
Glass shatters against the floor of Leblanc and all over Akira’s bare feet.
“Gah-! Akira, are you alright?”
Akira looks up from the broken siphon, watching coffee (Not blood.) drip from the counter. He let it boil too long and the brew shattered its fragile glass prison.
“Akira…?”
His hands are shaking and his breaths are unsteady, but he’s him and he’s here, and he’s okay. He’s… certainly not alone, though. Was he ever? Right from the start, that thing was… Akira shivers, trying to focus on keeping his breathing in check.
“Hey, can you hear me? You look pretty bad…” Morgana meows out, suddenly appearing before Akira on the counter’s edge. He paws at the puddle of coffee, careful of the shards of siphon scattered about.
“Can you get back to bed? Maybe we should call the Chief to clean this up…”
Akira swallows and nods his head, pulling out his phone to text Sojiro. He mulls over the text, deleting and retyping twice before settling on: “Can I stay at your house tonight?”