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Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.
Akira has done plenty of the latter – has had difficulty avoiding it, really. But one can argue that the former – the understanding part – has eluded him. Continues to elude him.
Take now. He stands in front of the cemetery in the mid-afternoon sun, sweat accumulating along his suit-collar, slacks sticking to his inner thighs. The bouquet draped across his forearms is garishly bright – pink peonies, baby-blue hydrangeas, sprigs of joyful sunflower – and its silently wilting, as if becoming more morose to suit the atmosphere.
So he backtracks in a hopeless attempt to figure out what brings him here once more. Steps through time in these narrow dress-shoes – an endless winter, puffs of warmed air, a glare that cuts deeper than any knife, an end before there was ever a beginning, cold metal and stinging iron of freshly spilt blood, betrayal and pain, and before that still; exchanges of glances that felt nearly suffocating, rich smell of coffee and spices, push-and-pull, thesis and antithesis, a poorly hidden smile, the warmth of a voice crackling on the other end of a line. Reality and unreality, meeting, melding and breaking Akira in their attempts to save him.
Akira is convinced that if he could just put a name to it, if he could explain it, if he can pinpoint the feeling then he can crumple it up and bury it with the person who extorted it from him. If he can understand it, he can move past it.
But dead men gives no answers, and waning memories only invent new questions.
Guilt, an old familiar friend, surfaces once more. He doesn’t remember his voice anymore. Doesn’t remember his face. If he dwells on it, he can still picture the shape of his lips, the way his hair framed his angular face, the scalding flames behind his eyes – but how much of that is truly a memory, and how much did Akira invent so he can quell his own regret?
Even now, he refuses to forget. After all, it was Akira that, on his own accord, erased the other from existence.
After it happened, he wrote his name in notebooks. On tops of letters. On orders for his own coffee. He wrote it on his skin each day, somewhere where only he could see. Repeated it, over and over again as he drifted off to sleep, a prayer to be visited by his ghost for one more restless night.
Several years ago, an anonymous donation was sent to this very cemetery, on the order of several million yen. A marker of permanence, something that will remain after Akira’s own mortality catches up to him. The stone carver diligently etched out a name no one remembers, shaking his head softly at the years. So young, he thought, then never considered it again.
He wonders, sometimes – if the other truly shot him in the head. He can still feel the bullet hole, cannot ignore the pervasive emptiness in the darkest corners of his mind – a space where something once was, that will never be again.
The wound doesn’t heal – not for lack of trying. Each time it scabs over, Akira tears at it with blunted fingernails, shreds this pathetic attempt at healing with an animalistic desperation, scratches until he bleeds once more.
Akira stops abruptly, bristling at the sight of another body in front of the gravestone.
The silent figure hovers over the monument, reaches out – glove-covered fingertips brushing against the black marble – then pulls back, rapidly, as if burned. The figure shuffles his feet, straightens the lapels of his heavy black overcoat much too thick for the summer air, and lifts his hands to adjust black gloves over pale skin, paler wrists.
He turns towards Akira and time, as its apt to do, stands still.
The man is his mirror image; down to the messy black hair, the black suit, his casual posture.
Akira, early on, found himself imitating Akechi’s mannerisms. A paltry attempt to remember, to have him as ingrained in his body as he is in his mind. At times, Akira would look in the mirror and see Akechi staring back. At times, Akira wished it was real.
But no degree of imitation can mimic those foxlike eyes. Deep maroon, the color of coagulated blood, they flick across his face in a precise dance of feigned indifference.
He has felt those eyes on him before. He has been entranced, chewed up, spit out by that same gaze.
This raven-black hair color, this messy too-long haircut look is horrific on the other.
Somehow, it suits him.
“Akechi,” Akira concludes, maintaining his gaze evenly on the other, refusing to so much as blink. If he does, he’s certain that this mirage will disappear forever.
Akira doesn’t miss the way the other’s shoulder twitches, the subtle raising of the other’s mismatched brows.
“Ah. Apologies. I believe that’s the name of this young man’s grave. You must be here to visit him. I will be taking my leave,” the not-stranger says, candor so similar to the Detective Prince Akira has to consciously steady himself so his knees don’t give out from under him.
His voice is deeper now – an underlying knife-blade’s edge, a threatening intonation that he pulled off less well when he looked (and sounded) like an angel relegated to earth.
“I know it’s you,” Akira presses, not taking his eyes off the other. He prays that it’s enough. If the other lies, if he walks away, Akira knows he would not follow.
The man’s shoulders droop, firsts un-clench and eyes soften from cautious to annoyed; a welcome change that has Akira’s heart fluttering in his foolish chest.
“You don’t live in Tokyo,” Goro Akechi states, as if they’re old friends in the middle of a conversation.
“You don’t live, at all,” Akira retorts. Akechi glances to his grave, the phantom of a smirk dancing in the corner of his lip before he shrugs his shoulders, nonchalant in the face of his own mortality.
“Perhaps.”
“Why are you here?” Akira allows his eyes to blink, surprised that they’ve filled with unshed tears. They’ve long ago run dry for the man in front of him. But there they are once more, spring everlasting.
“I can ask you the same.”
“I was in town. And you?” Akira asks, narrowing his eyes in challenge.
Akechi shrugs.
“I rather like the irony of visiting my own grave. Mourning the person I never could be. Grieving a life half-lived. Burying my regrets, my sins, what-have-you. Whichever metaphor you’re partial to.”
“And you call me sentimental,” Akira tilts his head, adjusting the bouquet against the crook of his elbow, tucking his hand into his jacket pocket. Warmed, brown leather greets him like an old friend.
“I still do. Why else would you be ‘in town’ on this day, in particular?”
Akira hums thoughtfully. His eyes dart to the tree behind them – to the nearly invisible lens pointed at Goro Akechi’s gravestone – then back to the flesh-and-blood version standing before him.
“A coincidence,” Akira shrugs.
“Shallow men believe in luck or in circumstance. Strong men believe in cause and effect.” Akechi quotes, raising his brows in queried suspicion. He follows Akira’s well-placed glance. Akira cannot stop the smile spreading across his face as Akechi notices the device hidden behind the leaves.
“You knew I couldn’t resist visiting a monument to my own failures.” Akechi concludes, and his own face betrays a degree of amusement that was certainly not present a second before. The air between them has been humid and muggy earlier, but the heat is escalating ever higher.
“Did pretending not to care make it easier?” Akira asks, knowing the answer. The other wouldn’t be in front of him if lying to one-self was the solution to self-actualization.
“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful of what we pretend to be,” Akechi recites from memory, distant look in his eyes, like he remembers all the masks he’s worn, all the people he tried to be but never was. It doesn’t ring true. Akira knows that, more than anybody.
His expression changes, then. Akira watches those razor-sharp eyes soften around the edges, eyebrows twisted in a desperation – as if asking for one of them, just one, to be logical. To be rational. Just this once.
“I killed you.” Goro Akechi tries, and it nearly sounds like an apology.
“I killed you in return.” Akira rebuts, and it sounds like ‘I’m sorry,too.’
“I wasn’t real.”
An endless winter, snowflakes dusting the world in a pristine white, proximity too close for sanity but too far for comfort, a realization of a purpose, a dream, being wrapped up in your murderer. The world’s funniest joke, spoken from the depths of a hopeless heart.
“You were to me.”
A wish come true, sharp words and folded arms, glaring at his direction in the laundromat. Looking at his face, like he thought he’d never see it again, because he thought he’d never see it again. Wanting nothing less than to possess, to fully consume, yet taking nothing more than the other was willing to offer.
“Living a doomed existence.”
And yet. Nights of music that sounded a little too perfect, competitions lasting far into the evening, subtle glances and flurried laughs. Fighting by his side; the wild violence, the seamless teamwork, the raw glimpse into each other’s true selves that not one single other person could appreciate.
Was it really all bad?
“And this one?”
Akechi hesitates. His eyes dart behind Akira, then to his own gravestone, then to the greenery of the kousa dogwood tree that shades them both, then to the pocket of Akira’s suit jacket.
“Doomed as well, but in a different way,” Akechi sighs, then, placing his hands in his pockets.
“Come back with me,” Akira doesn’t ask.
Akechi scoffs, but the tips of his ears flare a charming red; Akira, as always, pretends not to notice.
“Don’t be silly,” is the only thing he says.
It, pointedly, is not a no.
“I’m not asking for anything from you. Just for a cup of coffee. A game of chess.”
“It’s always just a game of chess with you.”
“Akechi – “ Akira starts, and now, more than ever, it feels like a prayer. For the first time in years, he feels like it might just be answered.
“Don’t you have a wedding to return to?”
Akira pauses. Akechi removes his hands from his pockets, resting his chin within the space between his thumb and pointer-finger; a silly ‘thinking’ pose that has Akira humorously baffled.
“The overly formal suit. Your hair looks well-tended, for once. The obvious tear-tracks under your eyes. And – of course – that gaudy bouquet. I cannot imagine you would have purchased something that awful for me. Unless you’ve finally come to your senses and have decided to hate me.”
“It’s the brides’. I caught it during the toss,” Akira confesses, feeling the heat in his cheeks multiply tenfold.
“Ah. Are there wedding bells in your future, Kurusu?” Akechi near teases, although there’s an undertone of something oddly dark within his voice. It sends goosebumps down Akira’s spine.
“Not unless you plan to stick around,” the words do not belong to Akira, really, but a shadow of a personality he has long not embodied. Yet, the other brings it out from him seamlessly – like no time has passed at all. Akira grazes past Goro Akechi, ensuring that their forearms brush as he nears the grave.
Gently, Akira places the bouquet against the gravestone. Wordlessly, he clasps his palms together, bowing to the name in front of him, to the years the boy who he simply cannot forget lived, and to the miracle standing just behind him – an answer to the years he’s spent wishing on each and every hapless star.
When he stands back up, he finds those eyes fixed solidly on him.
“I wouldn’t imply whatever it is that you’re implying.”
“And yet, you’re the one subtly asking me if I’m single,” Akira offers back, grinning to himself as Goro Akechi opens his mouth in what might be sincere shock, before clamping his jaw shut.
“…I concede. A cup of coffee won’t kill me,” Akechi states, choosing the absolute worst combination of words possible.
Akira hides his smile behind his hand.
The sweat drops in rivets along his rib cage, sticking his dress shirt to his sides. The jacket, of course, covers it – but Akira cannot deny the effect of the sticky summer heat. He starts to walk, checking behind him periodically to ensure that there’s a figure still trailing after and not the after-effects of a heatstroke induced hallucination.
Akira has been to this coffee shop a handful of times after visiting Akechi’s grave.
To think he’d have the physical embodiment in tow, this time, would be quite staggering. If it wasn’t all according to plan, that is.
The soft bell rings overhead. Akira directs them to a corner booth; close to the air conditioning. Luckily for them, in this part of town, at this time of day, the place is nearly empty. Akira is grateful for this – partly due to their very conspicuous apparel, and partly because the thought of other eyes on Akechi after so long makes something rotten surface on the back of his tongue.
The cool air dances against Akechi’s hair, making the stray strands halo around his face. The dim lighting only highlights the stark contrast of his raven-black hair with his auburn eyebrows, his near-golden eyelashes. He’s stunning in his contradiction.
Akechi takes a deep breath, relief palpable against Akira’s own pulse.
Akira takes off his jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair, hoping the vest underneath hides the sheer degree of sweat accumulating around his torso. He loosens his tie, pretending not to notice Akechi’s eyes training on his throat at the action.
“Something iced, perhaps?” Akira offers.
“I’ll leave the decision in your capable hands,” Akechi offers sweetly, eyes sharper and lilt borderline teasing.
Its dizzying. Neither the cloyingly sweet Detective Prince, nor the razor-sharp Assassin, this Akechi is something new entirely. Akira wants to take him apart, piece by piece, study him under a microscope, understand how each and every single piece works. It’s an almost disturbing thought that has him scrambling to the counter, quickly requesting their respective orders before meandering back to their table.
Akechi did not follow the temptation of removing his heavy outer layer; he sits in his long overcoat, gloves still on, gaze fixed out the window. There’s something nearly wistful in his expression. Akira takes a spare second to study it, to outline it, to sketch it onto the back of his eyelids so he never has to question what the other looks like again.
“I meant to say earlier…that’s an interesting hair color on you,” Akira states, sitting across the other, ensuring that their calves brush under the table in a way that one can convince themselves is accidental, if they so wish.
Akechi jerks back, ears growing a glaring scarlet under his black fringe.
“It simply contrasts my natural color the most without drawing attention to myself …It’s not because of you,” Akechi defends against a non-existent accusation.
“Never said it was,” Akira grins. He places his elbows on the table, leaning his head on the palms of his hands, narrowing what little distance between them that the rickety café table offers.
Goro Akechi’s features have only become harsher with age. Sharp chin, defined cheekbones, angular nose. His effeminate beauty, too, is more refined, still so ardent in the curling of his eyelashes, in the dip of his beautifully pink lips, the elegant folding of his long fingers.
“You want to know where I’ve been. How I’ve survived. Why I didn’t come back.”
“Not really,” Akira murmurs back, eyes following to the muscular lines of his neck, to the collarbone just peeking past his dress-shirt.
“There was simply nothing to come back to. I had nothing and no one and felt that it was best to move on. For all involved.”
The lovely young woman from behind the counter appears in that moment, placing two iced coffees in front of them. She adds a plate of white cake, topped with an assortment of summer berries, most notably a strawberry, vibrant and as large as Akira’s thumb, dusted with sugar.
“Ah – “
“Happy birthday!” the young woman congratulates, bowing lightly to Akechi before disappearing back behind the counter.
Accusatory eyes jump to Akira, who simply takes the straw of his coffee between his lips and sips.
“Honestly, Kurusu, I don’t know what you’re trying to – “
“I spent the last ten years thinking you were dead. Let me treat my friend on his birthday.”
Akira levels the other with what he hopes is a threatening look. His hand darts to his jacket pocket – he’s surprised that the brown leather is just slightly peaking out. He pushes it back in, letting himself brush against it away from Akechi’s prying eyes.
“You’re angry,” Akechi states.
“Not really,” Akira repeats.
He vividly visualizes smashing his cup over Goro Akechi’s head.
“I do not apologize, Kurusu. It was simply time. As Socrates once said, ‘The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our separate ways, I to die, and you to live. Which of these two is better only God knows.’”
“How has dying been?” Akira asks casually, expecting nothing from the other. He leans back, eyes searching his face.
“Freeing.” Akechi finally answers, taking a sip of his own coffee. He eyes the cake tentatively, but not without a degree of curiosity. “Free of my namesake, my revenge, all that I pretended to be and all that I was. I don’t think I could go on if I didn’t leave that name – that person – behind.”
“I see.” Akira swallows. He doesn’t think he could go on if he did leave that name – that person – behind. But that’s how its always been. Akira has always cherished Goro’s life much more than the man across from him cherished himself.
“And how has living been?” Akechi asks to Akira’s surprise, stirring the coffee with his straw, watching the cream swirl and blend into the black liquid.
“I’m doing it wrong,” Akira confesses, honestly, for the first time. He always found himself somewhat too honest, too bare around Goro Akechi. The façade he’s had to maintain around the others, around all other people that love him and he loves in return, collapses to show only the ugliness underneath.
Akechi says nothing for a second, just dips his fork into the cake. He brings it to his mouth, a delicate bite, eyelids fluttering shut. Akira daydreams about being the prongs at the end of that fork.
“And how do you do that?” Akechi asks, sounding nearly amused.
“By wanting something that I shouldn’t, and never learning how to want something else,” Akira focuses in on the frosting left on that fork, swallowing thickly with a hunger that has, at best, lay dormant - ready to awaken.
“And what is it that you want?”
Akechi, slowly, dips his fork back into the cake. Spears a strawberry; red juice splashing over metal – Akechi’s blood seeping underneath the metallic partition, too far from Akira even in death - Akira’s blood splashing against the other’s cheek, closer than he’s ever been allowed while living.
The phantom bullet hole in his skull aches.
“Do you have to ask?”
Akechi extends the fork to Akira, and Akira darts forward to catch it between his lips. The taste is delectable, all the more enticing knowing it was just between the other’s teeth. He looks up at the other through eyelashes, blood-red eyes fixed on his mouth with rapt attention. He brushes his calf against Akechi’s once more – this time, the other doesn’t pull away.
“Freedom is secured not by the fulfilling of one’s desires, but by the removal of desire.” Akechi states, simply, pulling the fork away much more slowly than is necessary.
“And have you? Removed your desire?”
He clenches the fork in his fist, skin whiting out around the grip.
“I’ve tried.”
Akira’s heart may simply burst out of his chest. Its thrashing against his ribs, a beast wanting to be free of this cage – knowing, fully, that the protection is just as much to keep the man sitting across from him out as it is to keep its silly, hopeless, fleshy self in.
“Excuse me… sirs? We’re getting ready to close up,” the young woman returns, bowing to them apologetically.
“Ah – “ Akira stars, cheeks flushing. He had not noticed the passage of time, as it seems to have lost all meaning. Akira Kurusu is seventeen today, falling hopelessly for his murderer. Akira Kurusu is twenty-seven today, celebrating the twenty-ninth birthday of someone he’s spent more time forgetting than knowing.
“Oh, apologies. We’ll be out of your way at once,” Akechi responds too-politely. Akira quickly fiddles with his phone, making the purchase before the two of them find their way out the door.
Evening has set in – despite that, the humidity has not let up. Akira drapes his jacket over his forearm.
“Well. Kurusu. I can’t say it’s been – “
“Spend more time with me,” Akira interrupts, turning towards the other. He swallows shallowly, unsure if his nerves are evident. To an ever-observant Akechi, he’s sure they are. He doesn’t know whether that works in his favor or against.
“I.” Akechi glances to the side, throat bobbing with a prolonged swallow. “I… shouldn’t.”
The hesitation is more than enough.
“Do it or do not do it – you will regret both.”
Akechi raises his head, sardonic smile painting his too-beautiful face.
“Kierkegaard? Interesting. I didn’t pin you as an existentialist, Kurusu.”
Akira keeps his gaze fixed on Akechi. Lets him make the decision on his own.
“Although, I must contend, it is a valid point. I suppose, then, I’ll do the one I want.”
The breath Akira wasn’t aware he was holding deflates from his lungs and, satisfied, he smiles. He arches his chin to the general direction where their next destination is – and, to his perpetual surprise, Akechi follows. They walk down Tokyo streets shoulder to shoulder. Their elbows bump in their proximity; neither one of them pulls back.
It’s not a long walk before they’ve arrived. Akira looks up at the building, inhaling deeply. His nerves are starting to protest. This is a bit optimistic, even for him. He glances to Akechi. Certainly the other knows exactly what kind of place this is. Certainly he would stop him, if he didn’t want this too.
He doesn’t stop him.
The individual at the front desk is behind a black screen – they hand him his keycards through a small slot underneath the window without so much as a word, and the two of them enter the elevator.
The door shutting behind them is the loudest thing Akira’s ever heard. A gunshot in its own right. The end to something. A beginning to something entirely different.
They find their room without an inkling of conversation. Akira swipes the keycard and opens the door for the other – Akechi doesn’t so much as hesitate as he walks forward.
Akira brushes a trembling hand through his own hair, exhaling slowly as he takes in the room before him.
“You really are a fool. You have locked yourself in a room with an assassin. Who’s to say that I won’t kill you once again?”
“You weren’t particularly successful the first time,” Akira shrugs, earning him a half-hearted glare.
“I owe you nothing, Kurusu,” Akechi states evenly, meeting his eyes with something much more hesitant than his words imply.
“But you’re here.”
“But I’m here.” Akechi agrees.
Akira takes every crumb of bravado still left over in him from his days as Joker and approaches Akechi with intention.
The height difference between them has narrowed significantly over the years – although still slightly shorter than the other, Akira is nearly eye-to-eye with Akechi.
“…You still wear these,” Akechi observes, tender fingertips on the frames of his glasses. He pulls them back, examining the lenses, before folding them and gently placing them on the bedside table.
“I actually need them now,” Akira jokes, elated at the phantom of a smile that briefly appears on the other’s lips.
“…Interesting haircut, too” Akechi adds, smirking as gloved hands brush through Akira’s too-long locks. The fingers catch in his curls; the slight pull is overwhelming in every way, sending waves of pleasure into his abdomen. Akira shudders.
“It’s not because of you,” Akira lies.
“Takamaki,” Akechi states as his fingers leave his hair and transition to his neck, where they wrap around his tie. With dexterous movement, Akechi loosens the knot further. An odd part of Akira’s brain prays he might just transform it into a noose.
“…What?”
“It was her wedding,” Akechi concludes, tossing the tie somewhere behind the two of them. Akira wouldn’t care if he threw it into the very pits of hell.
“The flower arrangement is just expensive and obnoxious enough to suit her tastes. Your tie is her favorite color. She has quite an affection for breakfast foods, thus a reception in mid-morning. Although, I am surprised that you look so miserable. Did you wish to hold the grooms space?”
Akira laughs lightly. The other sincerely enjoys this part of things, but as always, he’s just slightly off.
“I’m miserable because her wedding day is June 2nd.” Akira states the obvious.
“Lovely day for a wedding.” Akechi shrugs off.
“That day already means something to me.”
They’re close now – much too close. Akira tentatively bring his arms to Akechi’s chest, grasping the lapels of his overcoat, slowly dragging it down over his shoulders. His breath stutters as he watches the thick piece of fabric fall away from his fully dressed body.
“What a coincidence, then, that the venue had that sudden opening on that date, allowing Takamaki to move up the wedding so she wouldn’t miss that once in a lifetime photoshoot.”
Akira’s jaw drops open, eyebrows jumping into his hairline. Akechi is watching him with this mischievous sparkle in his eyes, something too knowing, just waiting for the other to catch up.
Its like he’s always been waiting for the other to catch up.
“Shallow men believe in luck or in circumstance. Strong men believe in cause and effect.” Akira repeats, and Akechi’s smirk spreads through his face like an invasive species. Akira prays it infects him, too.
With the overcoat no longer hiding his frame, its obvious how fit Akechi is. He isn’t soft and lean like he was in his teenage years – muscle is obvious under his sticky white dress-shirt. Despite the fact that he’s just as drenched with sweat as Akira was, he didn’t so much as hint at his discomfort.
“Though I suppose in this situation it can be both,” Akechi’s eyes blaze hot under the dim lighting. He looks down at Akira like he’s got exactly where he wants him, like this has always been a part of his plan, like he’s waited the ten years just to ensure Akira is as lost and desperate as he is before finally reappearing.
“I’ve missed you,” Akira confesses.
“You shouldn’t.” Akechi whispers back, their proximity causing the other’s warm breath to fan across his face.
“You know me better than to think I would ever stop something just because I shouldn’t do it.”
“That’s true. Against all odds, I do know you better than that.”
Akira chest squeezes in an effort to contain an emotion much larger than himself, and he surges forward in what he hopes is more bravery than foolishness – but very well may be both.
Akechi’s lips are beautifully soft. The connection sends lightning bolts down his spine, each nerve alive and writhing as ten years of want culminates in the sweetest combination of pleasure-pain Akira’s ever experienced. His bullet-wound weeps; in joy, in agony, in anything and everything all at once.
Its sudden, violent and forceful – first, a tentative meeting of lips, then a harsh hand gripping into his curls, pulling his mouth against his, lips pressing more insistently, lavishing him in too-sweet desire. Akira opens up for other – he has been waiting, open, this whole time – and teeth are next to scrape at his sensitive flesh, bites that he can imagine are nearly playful, then tongue. Akira meets it eagerly, brushing his against the insistent other, still tasting the cream, the strawberries, the sweetness of a dream long-lost, the bitterness of a future unrealized.
His fingers dig into the other’s shoulders, stomach clenching in a subconscious attempt to restrain himself – because he knows that this is happening, this is happening, which means that it will end and there’s no worse torture.
Akira moans, high and needy and Akechi stops.
“What?” Akira finds the mental fortitude to ask, leaning back, dazed and flushed. His partner is breathing heavy, lips swollen, lovely pupils blown in that bloody red, a solar eclipse of once-in-a-lifetime proportions.
“I haven’t done this before,” Akechi states, simply, without shame, his eyes searching the other’s face as if he’s asking for reassurance.
“Thank you,” Akira responds, as its all that he can say before diving in once more. Thank you, he thinks. Because the jealousy might have killed him otherwise. Because this way, Akechi has to remember him forever the way Akira has always, will always remember him. Because he’ll etch something else permanent, onto his skin, onto his body.
Akira hastens his traitorous fingers, unbuttoning the other’s shirt with whatever speed he can manage, gently placing it against the desk chair in the room; right on top of his overcoat. Then, follows the undershirt.
Akira swallows the lump in his throat.
There, a puckered scar right below his rib cage, at the level of his stomach.
“Akechi – “ Akira starts, breathless.
“Don’t you dare,” he responds, softly, and Akira wants to melt down into nothing.
He leans back in, meets more welcoming, more pliant, more wanting lips. And he breathes deeply, tastes the other, teeth and tongue and spit and flesh and he directs the two of them back to the mattress. He feels Akechi’s knees hit the edge of the bed; he takes that opportunity to trail kisses down his neck, nearly losing his balance as his lips find the damp skin of his chest. Hands wander lower, along his flanks, his abdomen, along every inch of him like he’s a sculptor willing to engrain his greatest masterpiece into his mind, knowing it can never be recreated.
His hands find the other’s slacks and, hurriedly, he unbuttons them too, following them down to the ground, landing on his knees as if compelled by some higher force.
Goro Akechi, the man who murdered him, an assassin and someone who has been missing for the past ten years, is wearing red boxer-briefs; and more than that, he’s very hard, wet spot obvious on the bright fabric.
Akira’s mouth waters.
“Kurusu – “
“Akira.” He retorts easily, unable to take his eyes off the other’s cock.
There have been moments – moments that he does not like to recount, for shame of desiring the other in such an uncouth way, that have ended up exactly here. On his knees in front of a man that can, and chooses not to, kill him.
He hopes.
“What?” the voice that comes from above sounds awfully choked up, so Akira glances upwards. Akechi is watching him, mouth slightly agape, cheeks a beautiful pink.
“Call me Akira. Please.”
He does not get a response. Instead, Akira brings his teeth to the waistband, biting into it and slowly, ever-so-slowly, bringing it down with him.
He soft whimper he hears above him is better than any symphony he has ever heard.
The other’s hard pink cock jumps out at him in a very friendly greeting. Akira’s own cock throbs.
He glances back up at the other for some sort of permission, but Goro Akechi is hiding his face behind gloved hands, skin so pink its radiating, and it’s the sweetest goddamn thing Akira has ever seen.
“Are you just going to stare all night or – Oh.”
Akira licks all the way up from the base, desperate to taste that summer heat on his skin, before winking at the other and taking him fully into his mouth.
Akechi bucks, knees shaking, and Akira places a hand against his thighs, easily guiding him onto the mattress.
Hands on either side of his thighs, Akira redoubles, hollowing out his cheeks and slowly, slowly enough to know it must hurt, takes Akechi all the way to the back of his throat. The second his cockhead hits the back, the other’s hips jerk; Akira presses down on his thighs, trying desperately not to gag. He rubs reassuring circles into the other’s skin, nearly high off the shaky exhale the other lets out, followed by a surprised little Ah! as Akira bobs back up, then down again.
“K-Kurusu, stop – “ Akechi orders with a shaking voice, but Akira has no intention of doing so. Not unless he gets his part of the deal.
He can feel the other’s thighs start to shake under his grip. The tightening of his balls. The impossible hardness of his cock, just waiting to cum into his mouth. Akira thinks we would absolutely love that. He’s tempted to wring it out of him, just so he will always know he got to taste the other against his tongue.
“Akira! Stop!” Akechi’s gloved hands find his hair and he pulls him off, hard, and Akira follows, grinning.
“Your wish is my command, my prince,” he says, making a show of wiping all the spit around his mouth with his forearm.
“You’re insufferable,” Akechi grumbles. He’s pouting sweetly, the blush now spreading into his chest. It’s so horribly charming Akira wants to swoon.
“You’re still fully dressed,” Akechi comments, still not looking Akira in the eyes.
“And whose fault is that?” Akira retorts. His knees hit the mattress and Akechi scoots back, allowing Akira to hover over him. Take in his whole visage with his eyes – his perfect skin, his long hair cascading over the bedsheets, eyelashes stuck together with what look like tears, and that shy heaving of his chest. He’s looking at Akira as if he’s surprised by him, and oh – what a pleasure, to be able to still surprise someone like Goro Akechi.
The other’s eyebrows furrow and its less than a second before his arms are around Akira’s neck, dragging him in for another messy kiss. All pretense of hesitancy are now gone – Akechi is all tongue and teeth, groaning into his mouth as his hands unbutton his shirt, dragging it over his shoulders, then his slacks, pulling down as far as he can reach over his hips. Akira helps by shimmying out of his dress shoes, tossing his pants and shirt behind him and leaning down to kiss the man below him senseless.
His lips, then his jaw, the beautiful cords of his neck, his clavicles, the hard pink nub of his nipple – at that, Akechi’s hips jump to meet his – and Akira can’t help but grin in response. He circles his tongue around the nub, fingers pinching the other as his hips roll against Akechi’s. His still clothed cock is achingly hard, but even this tiny bit of friction is heavenly.
“Akira!” Akechi insists, body trembling underneath him, and, drunk on the taste of his skin, Akira surfaces just for a second, motivated by the urgency in the other’s voice.
“Hm?”
“Will you just – can you – this isn’t a game – “
“What is it that you want?” Akira asks, sincerely curious. He shifts his weight so that his whole body hovers over the other, his own long locks covering up his face.
“Goro,” the other says, not meeting his eye. “It’s only… appropriate.”
“Goro,” Akira smiles, tasting the way it curls around his tongue.
“I’ll give you anything,” Akira confesses, allowing words to be just as naked and vulnerable as the two of them are here. There are many more words he could say – but he has to choose them carefully. Not too much. Not so soon. Not enough to scare the other away.
“I will not ask,” hisses the other, still averting his gaze, and the implications of the words really take Akira for a tailspin.
His own face erupts in flame.
“You would – you want to?”
“Do you?” Goro shoots back, as if offended.
“…I always have.” Akira swallows, the confession sitting snuggly on the very base of his tongue.
“You disgust me,” Goro scoffs, but doesn’t withdraw. Akira laughs to himself.
I disgust myself, he thinks. Instead, he arches forward to the bedside table to the provided accessories left for them.
With a new mission in mind, Akira shuffles to the back of the bed, grabbing a pillow and nudging it under Goro’s hips.
He does not want to acknowledge how hard his fingers tremble. Instead, he spreads the lubricant on them, heating it between his fingers, then leans down to nuzzle against the other’s hipbones, sucking at the flesh to distract the other as the first finger circles the rim.
“You better know what you’re doing –“ Akechi hisses from above him, and Akira can only roll his eyes. Instead, he takes the other’s still hard cock into his mouth, licking along the throbbing vein underneath and he slowly inserts one finger to the knuckle.
He hears no protests from above, just aborted gasps that sound like they’re muffled against some sort of fabric, so he proceeds. More lubricant, reassuring hand against his flank, then as soon as he deep-throats the other, tasting the drop of pre-cum gracing his tongue, he inserts a second. He starts to pump, slowly at first, but his own eagerness starting to get the better of him, he arches his fingers, pressing experimentally when –
“Ah, fuck!” Goro moans above him and, with a desperate thrust of his hips, spills into Akira’s mouth. Not even remotely disappointed, he works down the softening shaft, milking him for every drop, fingers continuing to scissor and pump inside of him.
“What did you – why – “ Goro’s voice sounds absolutely wrecked, gritty and fucked out. Akira’s cock throbs painfully and he gyrates his hips into the mattress, much too close to his own release for comfort.
“Can I keep going?” Akira asks urgently, kissing gently next to his cock, then along the V-shape muscle on his hip, then biting gently against his hipbone. Goro groans above him and doesn’t give him an answer. A gloved hand finding Akira’s hair and brushing, no, petting through it with what one might think is affection, is answer enough.
Akira keeps his hand busy inside the other, getting him used to the feeling as he leans back up – back to licking his nipples, lavishing his tongue along his abdominals, peppering sweet kisses around the bullet-scar on his stomach. It takes no time at all for Goro’s cock to start filling out again; Akira takes that as his que.
He pours more lubricant on his hand and, tentatively, he inserts a third finger. Goro tenses at that – but Akira tries to relax him, with a soothing hand against his thigh, with wet kisses against his torso.
A fast learner as always, Goro eases into his fingers and is back to groaning softly, trembling under his grip. Akira is going insane. He’s not sure how much longer he can do this without disintegrating entirely.
“Can I – “
“For fucks sake, Akira, if you don’t start moving I’m going to flip you around and take matters into my own hands,” Goro spits urgently and Akira fights the impulse to confess every sin he’s ever committed to that very image right then and there.
“Next time,” Akira reassures him, pretending not to hear the hushed, “Don’t count on it.”
Just taking his cock out of his boxers is agony, but placing the condom on, then lathering it up in lube - just the few pumps it takes to get him fully ready has Akira on the precipice.
It’s in this moment, of course, that he hesitates. His nerves get the better of him and, leaning over Goro Akechi in all his flushed, sweaty, absolutely showstopping glory, Akira withers.
“What’s wrong?” Goro asks, like the absolute madman he is.
All of this. Everything. Where have you been?
I’ve dreamt of you.
“Just nervous,” Akira admits, swallowing down the butterflies threatening to escape his throat and drown them both.
Goro’s eyes soften and he pulls him down by the neck once more, whispering words of reassurance against his sensitive lips.
“Don’t be. I’m here, aren’t I?” he offers, placating.
“You’re here,” Akira exhales, pressing his lips to Goro’s chastely. Sealing the promise with a kiss.
Akira leans back once more, taking his aching cock into his hands and, lifting one of Akechi’s lithe legs easily on his shoulders, and lining himself up. His heart is beating so fast he can hear the blood flow in his ears, the whole universe a soft and persistent Whoosh.
Slowly, ever-so-slowly, he guides himself inside.
Goro’s body jolts all around him and he can’t stop the groan that leaves his lips. His walls are clenching tight around his cock, so warm and velvety and perfect. Akira opens his eyes, watching the other watching him, the tick of his jaw as he grinds his teeth, the perfect tear that escapes one of his eyes.
With slow, controlled movements, Akira edges forward, allowing Goro to adjust to him. The other’s fingernails find his shoulders and dig in deep – it’s enough to draw blood, but Akira’s grateful for it. If not for the distraction, this entire experience would have been over before it even started.
Goro’s entire body is trembling by the time Akira’s sheathed fully inside, and he’s not faring much better.
“A-are you alright?” Akira asks, probably more to himself than Goro.
“Do your worst, Kurusu,” Goro gnarls, of course, although the fine sheen of sweat and the persistent blush on his cheeks tells a different story.
Akira does not think his worst is worth much in this moment, but he never backs down from a challenge, so he thinks of all the reasons he shouldn’t be choking on his own love in this moment – the manipulation, the desire to kill him, the assassination of the parents of his own closesnt friends, the complete lack of consideration of his feelings, disappearing for ten years, making Akira concoct some insane strategy to trick him into showing his face again, and this – with a snarl, Akira digs his hands into the other’s hips, pulls back smoothly, and thrusts forward.
Goro nearly jumps off the bed, the resounding moan echoing around them as if played by a church-organ, haunting and melodic and vibrating Akira deep into his marrow. To see this man unfurl in front of him like this, mouth open, eyes shut, arms on either side like he’s some kind of holy figure – is more than intoxicating. It’s a religious experience.
So Akira pursues recreating that sound – pushes hard, until his own thighs strain, until the corded muscles in Goro’s legs rebel, pounds into him with an almost animalistic viciousness, because he knows the man below him wouldn’t want any less. He lifts his hips off the bed, pumping into him so he’s sheathed further inside, the drag of his cock against the other’s walls, the resounding wale in the room, the way those fingernails scrape violently against his skin –
The feeling overwhelms him. It claws out his mouth and onto Goro, crawls up his splotchy chest, rests against his lips and Akira throws his body onto his, ravaging his mouth with his own, skin and tongue and slick all wild confessions to an absent god.
The second Goro bites enough to draw blood, the second they exchange tepid iron, the second he pulls back and watches it drip down his mouth, he knows he doesn’t have a chance in this world.
“Ah, Goro, I’m – “ Akira moans, hips stuttering, no longer listening to his commands. He still pushes forward, still drinks in the way Goro’s body follows his movements, meeting them, almost riding him back, his own pretty pink cock already between gloved fingers. Goro doesn’t say anything to him, just watches through hooded eyes, mouth a perpetual ‘o’ of a silent moan, hair stuck to his angelic face and, desperate to see the other’s face contorted in pleasure, Akira moves on autopilot, eyes fixed to his gorgeous face.
He watches it happen in real time – the arching of the other’s back against the sheets, the tension in the muscles on his neck, the blood that drips down his chin; then the perfect spurts of white cum landing on his chest, collecting on the leather of his black gloves.
It’s too much for one person – Akira groans and cums in concert, white-hot pleasure cascading down his body like a waterfall, shoulders to chest to stomach to thighs down to his very toes. He pumps forward shallowly, riding the wave, connected to heaven for the first time in his agonizing life.
The room is filled with shallow, rapid breaths, the stink of sex, and the distinct metallic tang of blood. Akira hopes that this is enough to replace that other memory – the one where he couldn’t save him.
It takes longer than it should for Akira to regain his sensibilities and to pull out of Goro. He does so gently – relieved that there’s no blood, although his perfect hole is certainly pink and swollen. He watches greedily as his it flutters around his absence – he’d love to fulfill its wish and keep it company once more, but its’ owner seems to have different plans.
Goro hops off the bed despite the trembling of his legs, instantly locking himself inside the backroom without a single word to Akira.
Akira, not entirely sure what to do, sits on the edge of the mattress and takes a moment to panic.
Did he do something wrong? Was it not enjoyable for the other? Was he too rough with him?
No time. Akira stands, searching the room. He finds his target almost instantly – he was sure he made it fall out of the other’s jacket while he was undressing him. He hurriedly opens his wallet – memorizing the name on the ID, before tossing it casually back onto the table.
“Well – I hope you’re satisfied, Kurusu. I’ll be taking my leave,” states the fully dressed Goro as he ambles out of the bathroom, looking no worse for wear than the second they both walked in here. He notes his wallet on the table and glares towards Akira, who pretends not to notice, sitting awkwardly on the bed in his own nakedness, as if he’s spend the past few minutes contemplating the meaning of life.
Realistically, he had been.
“I doubt you’ll be able to catch me again,” Goro boasts with an air of arrogance – and, dare Akira imagine it – challenge? He shuffles through the room, picking up Akira’s dress jacket. Without hesitation, he takes out the well-worn brown glove, clasping it in his hands.
“I’ll be taking this with me,” Goro states, and without another word, walks right out the door.
Akira stares after it long after its slammed shut.
Then, the giddiness takes over, and he starts to laugh, covering his face with his own hands.
He bites at his lip, still tasting blood, unsure whether its Goro’s or his own.
Fine.
If that’s how he wants to play it, then its game on.