Chapter Text
Goro grips the handle of his suitcase tightly. Everything is going according to plan. Everything is fine.
Everything will be fine.
Everything has to be fine.
(He has to be fine with everything that will happen. There is no other way.)
Then, he comes across Nijima Sae in the dirty, dingy hallway, down in the depths, where the worst offenders would be held for interrogation. Akira, stupid, perfect Akira, amongst them.
Sae says, “You’re not going to get anything useful out of him.” Her lips are pressed into a fine line. She taps the toe of her heeled shoe against the tiled floor.
Impatient. Angry. Upset. Her case had been pried away from her, after all. She has every right to be agitated. He can understand that.
Goro’s smile doesn’t waver. Neither does the ill-fitting mask of the Detective Prince. “Oh? Do you think so? Perhaps I’ll have more luck. After all I did work with him, however briefly.”
Sae’s brows give a delightful little jump of anger. She cannot conceal that fast enough. “You’re the one that brought him in?”
Goro hums. “It was a special assignment. He’ll be familiar with me.”
“Familiarity won’t help,” says Sae. “What they did to him… before I got here…” She shakes her head. Then throws away whatever she was thinking to simply state, “He’s in a bad state.”
“Oh?”
Goro gripped his briefcase tighter. Any tighter and it would become part of him. Surely, he told himself, a little brutality was expected. It was the leader of the Phantom Thieves that the police had dealt with.
Sae swallows, looks away, her eyes dark. “If you’re still determined to see him, I won’t get in your way. Good luck,” is what she ends up saying.
Then she’s gone, walking down that lonely hallway, all the way to the elevator.
Goro then turns his gaze to the guard. Young. Probably new and slightly more disposable than the rest. “Will you accompany me in?” He says, that pitiful child, wearing the mask of the Detective Prince. “I must admit… interrogating such a dangerous criminal is frightening.”
The expendable guard stiffens up and straightens his posture. He’s probably just surprised that someone bothered to talk to him at all.
The guard leads the way in, and Goro shuts the door behind him.
It’s far too easy to slip the guard’s gun from its holster, slip the silencer over the muzzle, and slip a bullet into his body. One and done. And he’s dead.
Goro has a speech planned, like he’s planned everything else. “I’ve come to rescue you,” he says sweetly, whirling the gun to face Akira.
Akira, who sits behind the table, his head bowed and his shoulders slumped. He doesn’t lift his head despite the commotion. In the silence of the room, Goro can hear the wet rasp of Akira’s breath. Hear how it struggles and dies within his chest.
Empty syringes litter the floor.
Rage flairs inside of him. How dare they!
Goro circles closer. Like a predator. He’s supposed to kill Akira, but it’s pointless. Akira is dying regardless. Each breath is a battle, a battle that Akira is losing. Slowly. Painfully. His breath is a wet, horrible sound.
Akira shivers but doesn’t react to his presence.
Goro takes a hold of his head and cranes it up, taking a look at the ruin of Akira’s face. His lips are blue, mouth parted to reveal the glint of teeth. His eyes are foggy, with no recollection in them. There’s bruising on his face, reminiscent of a boot. He’s missing his glasses.
This isn’t Akira. Brave, stupid, perfect Akira. This cannot be how Akira ends—with a whimper in the dark.
He deserved something more.
Goro had imagined how it all might end.
Never like this.
Akira raises his hands, as though to beg for mercy. He’s bound by handcuffs, and Goro sees red once again. The handcuffs are so tight that they’ve drawn blood, cutting into the flesh of Akira’s wrists.
If Akira lives past this day, would those wounds leave behind scars?
Goro lets go suddenly and Akira slumps back down, still making the mindless noises of a creature blinded by pain.
Goro’s breath comes rapidly. Akira is dying. Akira will die here—and not at Goro’s hands.
He can’t stand it. Can’t see this as the end to his rival, the only one who ever stood a chance at being his equal.
“Akira,” says Goro, not knowing if Akira would understand on any level at all. “Be quiet for a moment.”
Then he raises his hand to make a call.
“Shido-san, the job is complete.”
He doesn’t hear half of what Shido says. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the Kurusu Akira in front of him. Dying like a dog. Silent, as Goro had asked him to be. Perhaps he’d forgotten how to breathe.
Goro doesn’t tuck away his phone. He opens the Meta-Nav instead.
Then, in the transformed cell, Goro raises his gun. Akira can’t even raise his head to meet his eyes.
*
Goro has only one revival spell at his command. It has to work. He cannot let himself imagine otherwise.
So, Samarecarm it is.
Samarecarm again. He feels his energy drain out.
Akira gives a twitch and a moan, but the stuff that’s inside of his head remains firmly inside of his head. He still stays on the ground.
“Get up,” Goro hisses. They need to flee—to get out of here. To get somewhere that Akira could recover fully now that he is officially a dead man.
But Akira doesn’t get up. His idea of rebellion doesn’t manifest. It flickers around him here and there, too weak to do anything at all.
Not everything had been healed by Samarecarm. And Goro couldn’t stomach shooting Akira one more time to see if a third Samarecarm would do more. He could barely get the job done the first time.
Goro kneels and takes a hold of Akira. He’s too light, lighter than he should be. He’s cold and damp to the touch. Akira makes a strange, gurgling noise at the back of his throat. Immediately, Goro falls into a fit of panic. Is he dying all over again?
But no. Akira leans away from Goro and his whole body gives a shudder. He vomits, but all that comes up is stomach acid.
Goro swallows thickly. He didn’t bring water. Or anything to drink.
He had thought that it would be easy. That he would simply enter the room and shoot Akira. It didn’t go to plan. How could it go to plan? When the hell did he become so attached to Kurusu Akira?
Shakily, Goro says, “You’ll be fine, Akira.”
There’s no fight to Akira. Still trembling, he allows Goro to scoop him back up, into his arms.
It’s all fucked up.
For once in his life, Goro doesn’t know what the hell to do.
*
He brings Akira home. Not the apartment Shido pays for. That one is surely bugged to hell and back. No, he takes Akira to the apartment he had gotten in secret, under a presumed name. It is as safe as any place they could get right now.
Goro only sets Akira down once they reach the bathroom.
“Stay awake,” Goro hisses to Akira.
Akira remains on the ground, right where Goro left him, with Akira leaning all his weight against the wall. His eyes are half-open. Bleary. The bruising on his face looks worse under the florescent lights of Goro’s bathroom. He wonders if it’s the same with the wounds hidden beneath Akira’s clothes.
Goro runs a bath.
Akira is filthy and injured and cold. A warm bath would allow for Goro to warm him up and clean the wounds. He doesn’t think further than the moment. He can’t. His mind is fixed entirely on Akira, his huddled, shivering form. The ruined school uniform. The same uniform Akira had once shyly mentioned washing by hand in Leblanc’s bathroom sink until he found a part time job and could afford to wash his laundry at an actual laundromat. The idiot spent all the money earned from Mementos and the palaces on his teammates, on equipment, on medicine, leaving nothing for his own necessities.
Akira always put everyone ahead of himself.
And look where that got him. With his would-be murderer playing nursemaid.
“Let’s get you out of these,” Goro says, his voice low. He isn’t a gentle creature. When he wore the mask of the Detective Prince, he would always pretend. Akira needs gentleness in this state.
Goro is all Akira has in this state.
Akira is of no use, but he doesn’t fight Goro as Goro rids him of his clothing. Clothing that is beyond salvageable. With each layer removed, Goro discovers more and more wounds, left unhealed by Samarecarm.
Hatred burns in Goro’s stomach. But, he can’t exactly kill those that hurt Akira like this. Not yet.
He’d need their names.
“Let’s get you in the bathtub,” Goro says, all but lifting Akira and settling him in warm waters.
It isn’t like Akira can be much help in his own self-care right now. He hisses and grows stiff once water laps at his skin.
“…it wasn’t supposed to go this way,” Goro mutters. He takes a washcloth and helps himself, washing Akira as gently as he can. His hands are made for killing. Not whatever this is.
Akira lifts his head. His eyes are only half open, and even still they’re drooping closed. He makes a sleepy sort of sound. More of a hum than anything else.
How much of this does he understand? Or does he think it’s all a dream?
The water grows dark red and murky by the time Goro is satisfied with the work he’s done. Then, there’s the ordeal of extracting a wet and naked Akira from the bathtub and drying the uncooperative body.
Goro dries Akira with a fluffy towel, then lets him keep it. Akira can’t keep on standing. His legs are too weak, even when Goro is supporting most of his weight.
It’s the drugs. Or all of the wounds. Or both.
Goro doesn’t try to guess what is the worst of it. That Joker, the cocky and self-assured leader of the Phantom Thieves, is trembling like a chihuahua and is clinging to Goro for dear life says it all.
Finally, Goro seats Akira on the ground, beside the bathtub. He riffles through his medicine cabinet, coming away with his medical supplies. Sure, they’re nothing in comparison to what Akira got through his sketchy back-alley doctor, but they have to be enough. Goro fights back the swell of anger and jealousy and hatred. It doesn’t matter that Akira has that connection with the doctor, or any other confidant, so easily established and maintained. Look how far that has gotten him.
Obediently, Akira lets Goro treat his wounds. Not that he can do much about it, even if he wanted to.
Slowly, Goro applies creams to bruises and wounds, rolling cloth bandages to cover what he can. At some point, Akira almost resembles a mummy.
He cannot decide if the worst of the injuries are the wounds around Akira’s wrists (so deep that they will certainly scar), the footprint stamped onto Akira’s thigh (a deep, dark purple, a miracle that Akira’s bone didn’t snap), or the myriad of bruises that mar Akira’s face (another fucking outline of another fucking boot, at least one fucking pig has to fucking die). There are the many pinpricks that littered Akira’s neck, each mark signifying a dose of the fucking truth serum that would’ve been Akira’s end if Goro hadn’t decided to rescue him.
(Really, though. It bothers him. How could the Phantom Thieves allow Akira to take the fall like this? Didn’t they care about their Leader?)
“Stay here,” Goro says. He hadn’t brought a change of clothes to the bathroom, entirely focused on getting Akira clean and the wounds wrapped. The lump on the floor that is Akira gives an affirmative hum.
It isn’t as though he is in any shape to disagree.
Goro tears through his closet. He hadn’t been joking that time when he said he wanted to pick out Akira’s clothing, down to the accessories. He just didn’t think it’d be like this.
When he returns to the bathroom, Akira hasn’t moved, just slumped into himself, having wrapped the towel around himself like a cape. His eyes are drooping quickly. It’s a small miracle that he hasn’t passed out yet.
“Don’t fall asleep yet,” Goro says. It comes out so strangely gentle, he doesn’t recognize himself.
Dressing a sleepy and injured Akira is a whole other ordeal. But once it’s done, Goro takes a moment. He hadn’t thought there was much a difference between their sizes, but Akira looks like he’s absolutely drowning in the hoodie.
Akira sluggishly reaches up, tugging the hood over his head—his only contribution to this ordeal.
“Come here,” Goro says, scooping up Akira. Akira doesn’t fight him. How could he? He’s useless in this state. So, Goro brings Akira to his bedroom.
The bedroom, with the one bed.
The bed, who’s sheets he hadn’t washed since the last time he did his laundry.
Goro didn’t expect to have guests today, or ever. And he truly didn’t expect for Ren to live past this day. So, like with the rest of the day, he deftly ignores the problem. Goro settles Akira down into the bed, and Akira immediately curls up. His breath goes even and he’s out like a light.
“You didn’t even drink anything yet…” Goro mutters.
Dehydration is another concern. When was the last time Akira drank? Before the brutal interrogation, surely. Perhaps even before the infiltration into Sae’s palace.
So hours now. He doesn’t want to think about how much longer it’s been since Akira has eaten anything…
Goro sighs and settles down on the edge of his own bed, stolen by attic trash.
What is he going to do? He thinks, worrying the edge of his nail.
*
So that he doesn’t continue thinking about how fucked they were, Goro sets about to work. His apartment looks like a hurricane has gone through it. It cannot be helped. Between work as the Detective Prince, his true work as a metaverse assassin, and high school—when he bothered to show up for it—he had remarkably little time and energy to keep his apartment in order. Things were often left in the most convenient location for embarrassingly long periods of time.
Akira, stupid, perfect Akira, would never expect Goro to be so… disorganized.
So, Goro cleans.
(And, if every half hour, he goes to check in on Akira, that is no one’s business but his own and the shame that threatens to overwhelm him. Checking for breath. Checking that his heart still beats.
Through it all, Akira remains asleep, his mouth fallen just slightly open.)
When Goro reaches his kitchen, he does realize a major problem. There is hardly any food inside of it. Worse, Goro isn’t exactly… able to cook.
He closes the refrigerator and swallows. Then he turns back, looking at the closed door of the bedroom.
*
Goro goes to the closest convenience store. It isn’t far, he tells himself. Just down the block. Open twenty-four hours with cashiers that are disinterested in him and seemingly everything about life. After 8pm, the bento boxes go on sale.
So, Goro returns to his apartment with slightly more bento boxes that he intended to purchase and miscellaneous medical supplies. He takes one of these boxes at random, then grabs a mug and fills it with water.
In Goro’s bedroom, Akira has seemingly rolled himself up in the blankets, until only a tuft of hair was visible. Goro hesitates. Then approaches slowly. He sets down the water and the bento, sitting on the edge of his own bed. With a hand that is certainly not shaking, Goro checks for breath, letting out a sigh of relief when Akira’s hot breath hits the back of his hand.
“Wake up,” Goro says, shaking a lump that might be Akira’s shoulder, beneath that blanket.
Akira stirs, more of his head peaking out from the blanket. His eyes are bleary, hardly open. “…’kechi?” He manages to say.
“Yes,” says Goro.
He would answer what questions Akira had. He would see Akira through this. And then… and then… well, Shido still needed to be taken down. Even if it means embarrassing himself in front of his rival. Even if it means admitting to be unable to kill Akira. Even if it means sharing just how panicked he had become, seeing the life drain from Akira’s beaten, broken body.
How, despite the blood on Goro’s hands, he could not allow Akira to die.
Akira swallows. “Is this real?”
It’s like ice inside of Goro’s stomach. Very carefully, Goro says, “Yes.” He brushes some of the untamed curls away from Akira’s face. “You’re in my apartment.”
Akira hums. “Mm. It’s nice. Warm,” he says, with as much coherence and eloquence that one could expect. And what a low bar. That the fact that Goro’s apartment had heating had Akira satisfied.
How did he survive the cold, drafty attic so long?
“Can you sit up?” Goro tries. “You need to drink something and eat.”
Akira doesn’t say anything. He immediately tries to sit up, wincing and inhaling sharply. Everything still hurts, evidently enough.
“Here,” Goro says, helping him until he’s sitting back, against the headboard and supported by a mountain of pillows that were originally supposed to be decorative.
Akira’s breathing is rough just from that small movement. He frowns, eyes still bleary. It’s like he isn’t fully awake yet.
Goro hands him the glass of water, but doesn’t let go. “You need to drink,” Goro says, guiding the glass up, to Akira’s lips. It doesn’t escape him—how Akira’s hands tremble against the glass.
Akira drinks all of the water, draining the glass dry. He likely hadn’t even realized how thirsty he was.
Goro sets the glass aside. Then opens the bento box. It’s a simple one—rice, pickled vegetables, and grilled fish. Goro doesn’t trust Akira’s shaking hands. All that’s left is for Goro to feed Akira himself then. There’s no helping it, he reassures himself.
Akira opens his mouth when food is brought to it, chews, and swallows.
It’s a strange scene.
Then, Akira turns his head, squinting at the discarded plastic lid for the box. “Lawson?” He says. “777 is better.”
Goro scoffs. “For whatever reason? Is it simply because they deigned to employ you?”
“Mm-hmm,” Akira hums, agreeing with Goro. “I have to have some brand loyalty.”
“Focus your energy on eating,” Goro says. It would be mean to argue further with an invalid. Even if the invalid in question is Akira.
So, dutifully, Akira eats what Goro feeds him. He doesn’t manage to eat nearly all that had been included in the box. But he eats well enough.
“‘m stuffed,” Akira murmurs, sinking into the pillows. “This is a weird dream.”
Goro, tired, doesn’t correct him. “What would make it a pleasant dream then?”
“Maybe you could kiss my ouchies better?” Akira asks.
Goro fixes the blankets over Akira. “Get some rest.”
When he wakes up… when he is coherent… they would have to talk. They would have to come up with some sort of plan. Goro would have to come face to face with the other thieves, however upsetting this may be, knowing how attached Akira is to them.
Goro watches Akira, how his eyes have slipped down again, how his breath is already evening out.
Then, Goro stands.
Akira’s eyes widen and he’s awake again, latching onto Goro’s sleeve. “Don’t go,” he says, voice small. Utterly unlike himself. There’s something strange shining in his eyes. Something like fear.
For many years, Goro has steeled himself. He is a killer, his hands stained with blood. He has become a cruel thing, to avenge his mother. All the pleading and whimpering from the rot of society that had faced him had never once shaken him.
Here, now, Goro feels himself grow weak. How can he say no to Akira’s pitiful request?
Slowly, Goro shifts, putting his full weight back onto the bed and lying down slowly. Akira is like a leech against his side, clinging so tightly, as though afraid that Goro may still leave. They curl up on their sides, their breaths intertwined, beneath a shared blanket. The bed is not a small one. Still, there is hardly a gap between them. Ren clings to him, and Goro does not move away.
There is still so much left to do, Goro thinks idly. He doesn’t move. Instead, he watches Ren. Watches how his eyes slide shut.
He could leave. If he moves slowly, it wouldn’t wake up Akira, who is dead to the world at this point.
His heart twists strangely at the thought of leaving the other boy. So, Goro remains where he is.
Eventually, Goro also falls asleep.
In the morning, he would have to figure out what to do next. For now, not even dreams disturb him.