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fabrications )
Akira hadn't thought seeing him in person would affect him as much as it does. After all, he's had two months to mentally prepare himself for this moment.
And yet, the sight of Goro Akechi, alive and in the flesh, perfectly put-together and looking like he was made to sit under the studio lighting, makes him feel... some kind of way. Unsettled, for sure, knowing what he knows now. Then again, there's a part of him that hasn't stopped feeling unsettled since he first (well, perhaps first isn't accurate) jolted awake to find himself on the train to Yongen-Jaya again. In one piece. Not bleeding out on the ground with a megalomaniacal pseudo-god bearing down on him. And, most importantly, as the only one with any recollection of all they'd been through.
It doesn't take Akira long to come to the most logical conclusion: That somewhere along the line, he screwed up. Somehow, it hadn't been enough, and now he has an opportunity to fix it—which would be a lot easier if he were to have some notion of what, specifically, he needs to fix, or even if this is a one-time deal.
At first, he tries copying his previous motions as closely as possible. People always talk about their regrets like they would change them in a heartbeat, given the chance, but the thought of altering the timeline as he knows it is overwhelming. The more Akira steps away from his previous path, the less accurate his existing knowledge may become, the bigger the chance that he may miss something important from the first time around.
That reasoning goes out the window pretty quickly. Akira finds that he can't watch Shiho Suzui jump off that building again, can't go through hearing that agony in Ann's voice a second time when he can so easily prevent it. So he stops her. It's what the Phantom Thieves would do. And things change... but not in a way that affects the flow of events in any profound way. Ann still stumbles after them into the Metaverse and finds the conviction to awaken her persona, somehow. He's not sure how it works out, but it does. What Akira does know is that fate is what you make of it. If he believes in his teammates, they'll end up where they need to be.
But for all of that, he still wavers as they're leaving the recording area. Up until now, the decisions to change things have been easy. Akechi, on the other hand... where to start? Is it even salvageable? Akira's not certain, but when he thinks of their last meeting in Shido's palace, Akechi's remark about the possibility of them meeting a few years earlier, the sounds of gunshots echoing from the other side of the bulkhead—he can't not try. It's not years, but maybe this handful of months will be enough.
Akira lets Ann go ahead with a nod, sliding his hands into his pockets as he tries to maintain his usual casual demeanor. Any moment now...
And yet, the sight of Goro Akechi, alive and in the flesh, perfectly put-together and looking like he was made to sit under the studio lighting, makes him feel... some kind of way. Unsettled, for sure, knowing what he knows now. Then again, there's a part of him that hasn't stopped feeling unsettled since he first (well, perhaps first isn't accurate) jolted awake to find himself on the train to Yongen-Jaya again. In one piece. Not bleeding out on the ground with a megalomaniacal pseudo-god bearing down on him. And, most importantly, as the only one with any recollection of all they'd been through.
It doesn't take Akira long to come to the most logical conclusion: That somewhere along the line, he screwed up. Somehow, it hadn't been enough, and now he has an opportunity to fix it—which would be a lot easier if he were to have some notion of what, specifically, he needs to fix, or even if this is a one-time deal.
At first, he tries copying his previous motions as closely as possible. People always talk about their regrets like they would change them in a heartbeat, given the chance, but the thought of altering the timeline as he knows it is overwhelming. The more Akira steps away from his previous path, the less accurate his existing knowledge may become, the bigger the chance that he may miss something important from the first time around.
That reasoning goes out the window pretty quickly. Akira finds that he can't watch Shiho Suzui jump off that building again, can't go through hearing that agony in Ann's voice a second time when he can so easily prevent it. So he stops her. It's what the Phantom Thieves would do. And things change... but not in a way that affects the flow of events in any profound way. Ann still stumbles after them into the Metaverse and finds the conviction to awaken her persona, somehow. He's not sure how it works out, but it does. What Akira does know is that fate is what you make of it. If he believes in his teammates, they'll end up where they need to be.
But for all of that, he still wavers as they're leaving the recording area. Up until now, the decisions to change things have been easy. Akechi, on the other hand... where to start? Is it even salvageable? Akira's not certain, but when he thinks of their last meeting in Shido's palace, Akechi's remark about the possibility of them meeting a few years earlier, the sounds of gunshots echoing from the other side of the bulkhead—he can't not try. It's not years, but maybe this handful of months will be enough.
Akira lets Ann go ahead with a nod, sliding his hands into his pockets as he tries to maintain his usual casual demeanor. Any moment now...
no subject
"Still making excuses to come see me?" He can't help but tease, recalling a time when he had to tell Akechi that he didn't need excuses like coffee or cases to visit him. It feels so far away now, that time when hours spent with Akechi were the only ones that didn't carry a weird sense of deja vu.
Muscle memory carries him through the process of scrubbing their dishes clean, and by the time he's wiping his hands dry and coming to accept the coat, Akira is able to offer a smile. "Feels you're about to see me off to a day at the office."
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Akechi mirrors Akira's smile with one of his own, though he can't help but grin at his next comment.
"I'm afraid I don't have any lunch to send with you... Maybe next time." Though if one of them were to work in an office and the other were to regularly see him off with a meal, Akechi feels like the roles would be reversed from what they are now. Something to consider for the future, he supposes.
Akechi turns over the coat without any fuss, the reluctance from earlier no longer visible in his expression or tone. He'll be fine for a few hours, though he doesn't try to stop himself from seeking out Akira's hand to briefly lace their fingers together.
"Take care, Akira. I'll see you later."
no subject
The sudden bump of a hand dislodges those thoughts, fingers twining warmth through his own. Take care. Akira squeezes back, heart in his throat, and uses their clasped hands as an anchor when he draws closer to catch Akechi's lips with his own.
He can't say goodbye the way he would like to, but at least he can leave him with this: a kiss that takes every drop of fervent affection and pours it into that touch. The hand in his keeps Akira grounded enough to restrain the desperation raging inside of him. It doesn't overwhelm the gesture, tinging only the edges in the way he presses in by a small step and cups a hand against Akechi's cheek, hungry for more.
no subject
There's no desperation on his end, only languid contentment with an undercurrent of excitement to it. He's in a much clearer state of mind compared to last time, and that lets him notice the slight tension in Akira's movements, but even now Akechi's ability to read Akira is questionable at best. He mistakes desperation for simple neediness and thinks nothing of it, aside from indulging in the feeling of having such neediness directed towards him - and by someone like Akira no less.
Alright, maybe excitement is exerting more of an influence over his actions than Akechi realized. With that last thought he ends up pressing a bit closer, like he can't wait for the chance to do this again and doesn't want to let this opportunity go to waste.
no subject
But he knows better. Even if Akechi weren't to notice his underlying feelings, it would make leaving even harder than it already is. Akira settles for edging only a bit closer and catching his fingers through the hair that frames Akechi's face, dragging down a caress that mirrors that of his lips, both in its gentleness and the way he slowly eases out of it after a long moment.
"You make it hard to say goodbye," he murmurs into the narrow space between their lips, like he wasn't the one to initiate it in the first place.