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Akira–contrary to popular belief–wasn’t a fool. What he was, though, was stupidly sentimental. What he was feeling as he patrolled the outside of the Diet Building (something he really shouldn’t be doing, given the fact he was supposed to be dead) wasn’t hope – not exactly. Caution, perhaps? That singular what if.
Everyone had witnessed what transpired, everyone had heard Futaba say Akechi’s signal was gone. Morgana was reminding him of that every few minutes, which wasn’t helpful in the slightest, but Akira understood what he was trying to do. Akira wasn’t hoping Akechi made it out alive somehow, he knew that wasn’t possible. He was just checking, just to make sure.
Futaba hadn’t been happy to leave him be, even with Morgana, but Akira had promised he’d be okay and Ann offered to take her home. It’s not like he had said exactly what he was staying behind for, but Akira was sure all of the thieves were able to guess.
It angered him, he thought, that the thieves didn’t know what Akira saw in Akechi–which is hypocritical, because it wasn’t like Akira himself could put it into words. All the charm the Detective Prince had was fake, manufactured in the lab of Goro Akechi’s brain to make the public swoon. Akira had been charmed by it, that wasn’t in question, but he’d more so enjoyed finding out what made the perfect pretty boy tick. That being said, Akira did have a crush on the Detective Prince, but he liked Goro Akechi. Calling them two sides of the same coin felt wrong. Akechi had been far too dimensional to only warrant two sides.
Trudging through a particularly overgrown section of grass at the back of the building, Akira began feeling himself mourn. He wasn’t even sure he’d scratched the surface. The barrier between the prince, the monster and the real self had been nuanced during the battle, but not fully revealed. It never would be; Akira felt his heart break a little more. He wouldn’t be able to learn anything more about a dead man, and it’s not like he could share a cup of coffee with someone who would share stories about the real him. Hell, the only other people who saw enough of him were Makoto’s sister–who he definitely wasn’t himself around–and Akechi’s father. Although Akira definitely saw himself having a conversation with a shadow version of that man, (that much was unavoidable, probably, the thieves never got out unnoticed before) he couldn’t imagine Masayoshi Shido would have any particularly heartwarming or enlightening stories about his son.
As if it were fair to call him that.
No part of this had been fair.
It hurt to think about Akira’s own feelings for Akechi. Calling it a crush was underselling it, and maybe he was a little embarrassed by how intense his feelings were for a boy he knew for barely half a year. Rivalry and murder attempts aside, Akira always thought there was something more to their relationship. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something higher than the both of them, than any players currently in the story, had wanted them to become intertwined–in one twisted way or another. Akira wasn’t able to do away with the concept that he had been waiting for Akechi.
Not that Akira didn’t feel that way about his other friends. He didn’t have many before the assault charge, but they were there. They all pretty much abandoned him soon after though… he did feel like he was waiting for new friends and new opportunities to come to rise when he was shipped off to Tokyo, but it wasn’t the same as how he felt with Akechi. It frustrated Akira; he couldn’t put his feelings towards Akechi into words and it ate away at him. He had never planned on telling him anything (not even in a confession way), but the fact it wasn’t even an option stung.
There wasn’t going to be an opportunity to confess that he secretly yearned for the man who had every intention of putting a bullet in his skull (and sort of did). There definitely wasn’t going to be an opportunity to confess such things to a dead man, and he was dead. Shido clearly had some semblance of confidence in the twisted cognition of Akechi. He knew the detective was a good killer, so his cognition of Akechi would definitely be able to take a life.
God, why was he still here?
Akira sighed and tugged at his bangs underneath his hood. It had been dark when the thieves left the palace, it was only getting darker. “Look, I think if we stay any longer, we’re gonna attract unwanted attention,” Morgana’s voice pierced through Akira’s thoughts, “I know how you’re feeling but we should–”
“You don’t,” Akira barked out, managing to keep his volume relatively low. His voice was still stern and commanding. Joker-like, but not quite all the way there. Morgana didn’t know anything, but, “but you’re right. Let’s go.”
They travelled wordlessly back to Leblanc, within moments of the cafe's bell chiming, Akira's phone buzzed too. Futaba had texted, no doubt waiting anxiously listening to her bugs for Akira’s return. His stomach twisted. She had done it out of concern, but tonight… Everything felt wrong.
Oracle: Glad you’re home safe.
Out of the corner of his eye, Akira spied Morgana twisting his face–whether at the text message or Akira himself, he wasn’t sure. He pretended the strange look went unnoticed. He didn’t have the energy tonight. He didn’t deign Futaba with a response, and he wished he felt bad about it.
Morgana didn’t curl up beside him, instead opting to sleep on the couch. Akira really didn’t know if he was grateful for the space or not. He lay awake for far too long thinking about Akechi, as if the mere thought of him would will him back into existence. He longed to close his eyes and dream about the detective coming back, right as rain… perhaps even curling up beside him in Akira’s sorry excuse for a bed. The thought wasn’t comforting, despite how he longed for it. He only focused on how entirely out of character the scenario was for Akechi.
If Akira had thought a little faster, he could be patching up small wounds as Akechi hissed at him for putting cold antiseptic on him. If Akira had thought a little faster, he could’ve crossed the partition and carried a wounded, but breathing Akechi to Takemi. If it had gone like that instead, he could be guarding a recovering Akechi as he lay in his bed. Maybe if he was sedated enough, Akechi certainly was a brilliant actor but he hadn’t really schooled his expressions when he’d been in the attic. He clearly didn’t think highly of the place. Not that Akira did, he was just certainly used to it by now. Akechi being unimpressed with the attic didn’t stop Akira from wishing he was here. He didn't allow himself to hope for divine intervention, or whatever bullshit his grief-addled mind was able to think up. Akira was going to accept Akechi's death.
It happened right in front of him, after all.
He must’ve thought himself to sleep, because Akira woke up the next morning only to confront the memories of the day prior. He barely managed to sit up and upon noticing Morgana wasn’t in the attic, he crashed back down and rolled over.
Akira did not get out of bed that day.