stealhearted | after me comes the flood;

[ Akira doesn't reply for a long moment. He looks at the bedroom -- it shifts under his gaze, like a safe room, giving a glimpse into that unlived in bedroom that Akechi actually lived in. Instead of this -- this room with books, with a blanket that must have been purchased from his mother, with a very modest collection of Featherman merchandise relegated to a single shelf so as to not be too embarrassing, with trinkets and gifts and books and things that make it look like someone exists. Like someone was happy here. ]

... you should tell her you love her. Don't let her think you're mad at her for caring about you.

[He does not, in fact, tell his mother he loves her.]

[His jaw slides closed with an audible click, and he clenches it a moment, snapping his head up and directing his-- anger? Confusion? He doesn't know what he's feeling right now, really, except that he's rubbed raw like an open wound.] Why, am I going to dream about killing her, next? Akira, you know what's going on, or you wouldn't be here. Just tell me.

Please. [ Akira's voice cracks on it, because it's a plea -- he feels like it's the one thing he might be able to do right, the one thing he might be able to do right in this entire mess. He's never been able to do anything meaningful for Akechi. All he's done is cause him more and more pain. ]

If I tell you, it's going to be too late, so --

[ It's already too late, Akira thinks. He waited too long. ]

Is-- is that why I'm scared of you? You keep... making it sound like something's going to happen.

[He looks down at his feet again, then brings his hands forward, looking at them and then back up at Akira.] And it... involves you? And my mom? [Between Akira's pleading and the strange horrified snarling that's getting harder and harder to ignore in his own head, he reaches one hand back toward the door handle, but doesn't turn it.]

You're -- scared? [ Akira looks -- sick at the thought, and he can't make eye contact. His hand squeezes together into a fist before he manages to make it relax, because this isn't how any of this should be going. He looks up at the ceiling of Akechi's bedroom. It's very clean. ]

That's fine. It's fine, so -- before it's too late, tell her -- [ Akira can feel the pressure building as Akechi starts to connect the pieces, and Akira has never before wished that Akechi wasn't as smart as he is. ]

Not-- it's, more like I don't trust you like I'm used to. I keep thinking of you by your family name, and I haven't called you that in years, and I don't want to tell you things-- [He flinches again, the hand on the doorknob wrenching away from it in favor of gripping the side of his head.]

[The sound of pain he makes is very distinctly Loki.]

[ Akira's eyes sting. Akechi isn't going to do it because of course he isn't; the Akechi that he knows -- the Akechi he fell in love with -- never does the things Akira wants him to do, never does the things that are in his self-interest, so why would he do this? Why would he make this easy? ]

Because they weren't dreams. [ Akira sets the curry down before he drops it, either when this reality finally shatters or when Akechi inevitably punches him. ]

I didn't want to wake you up if you were happy, but you can't -- I can't -- I can't make the decision for you --

[ Akira blinks hard, looking away from Akechi again. ]

You're going to hate me even more, huh.

[He always has been something of a bifurcated person when it comes to what he wants and what he does. How he thinks that acting one way will push away all the things that can hurt him, when he's also pushing away all the things he wants at the same time. He makes another animalistic yowl of sound, throwing his weight backward into the door behind him and gripping at his head, still.]

[His mother's voice calls out to him in concern, and it's oddly distant. He raises his head from his hands sharply with a gasp, and if Akira looks, it probably hurts more still that the usual sharpness and exhaustion is there, but the sincerity of the fear in his eyes mixes into it. Her voice calls out again, closer this time. Akechi struggles to make himself use Akira's given name.] Akira,

[The doorknob rattles behind him, and he shifts his hand to hold it still. She calls out to him again, rattling the doorknob a little harder. Clarity claims his features, and he turns sharply, whirling in place and turning the doorknob to wrench the door open.]

[The reality shatters, and with it, his mother.]

[ It's probably the last time Akechi's going to call him Akira, and Akira can't enjoy it because all he can hear is the fear in Akechi's voice, and then the door is open and --

Akira looks stricken. He wanted Akechi to be able to say goodbye, he didn't want -- he didn't want that. It spans outwards from her, like a crack under pressure: the warmth of the condo is removed, cozy yellows and browns giving way to harsh blue and grey, the minimalism of Akechi's former life in stark contrast to what it was with his mother there.

It's so much more empty. ]

... I'm sorry. [ Akira's never sounded quite so broken. ]

[He must have reached for her, and it's strange because being that it was an augmented reality, none of what was in it should have been able to affect the true reality once it was reset. He chalks it up to psychosomatics, then, that the sudden shift in the capacity of his condo from the augment to the truth caused just enough of a rift in something that it sliced open his palm as if on a piece of shattered glass.]

[He drops to his knees unceremoniously in the doorway, and like everything else in his condo, he's just strangely still.]

[Eventually his palm itches, and he raises it to turn it outward and scratch the source, not stunned enough by the gash across it or the stark pool of crimson. His voice is extremely hollow.] ...Kurusu, there's a first aid kit in the cabinet behind the bathroom mirror, I'll need you to bring it to me.

[ It's something to do. It's something he can do, so it helps; he blinks away the heat in the corner of his eyes and pushes his glasses up to scrub at his face with his sleeve. It isn't his place to be upset by this. It isn't his place at all when Akechi is the one --

He jerks forward, going to the bathroom automatically to get the first aid kit. The curry he'd brought looks starkly out of place, now, the tupperware bright and cheerful on a backdrop of depression made manifest.

When Akira gets back, he drops down to his knees, too. ]

... let me see.

[He looks up and shifts his hand into Akira's line of sight, moving slowly like his limbs are leaden. Looking back to his hand, he bends each of his fingers, stiffly to make sure he hadn't cut deep enough to cause nerve damage-- it was his left hand, he needed it functional. When he's met with motion and sting and the pool of crimson getting darker from compressing the cleaved layers of skin, he looks back to Akira.]

Don't touch me, just put the kit down.

[ Akira does. He doesn't quite flinch, but there's a tension in his frame that gives away his emotions. It's always been his body language that has more tells than anything else -- and there's none of it right now, which is the biggest tell of all. He just sets the kit down, then sits, automatically, letting his back thump against the wall. It isn't like there's anyone else to disturb in the condo now.

Akira doesn't say anything, because he doesn't know what to say. The right thing? He never knows the right thing when Akechi is involved. He's never once been able to save him, save for tackling him at the right moment in the depths of a ship and both of them getting lucky.

Akira's posture is probably very familiar to Akechi -- it's the posture of someone trying to make themselves appear smaller than they are. ]

[He takes a moment to focus on his hand, opening the kit with his right and rifling through it. He stems the blood flow, gives it a cursory wipe in an effort to kill any bacteria on the surrounding skin, and then wraps it with gauze until his palm somewhat resembles a mitt. It should take some time for it to bleed through that, and if he's smart with it, maybe it will scab over before it gets to that point.]

[As he wrapped his hand, he took note of Akira's silence and shrunken posture in his peripheral. A piece of medical tape applied to keep the gauze from unraveling, he raises his head to actually look him over.]

Stop looking so distraught, it was only a matter of time. You said it yourself, you couldn't make the decision for me.

...I shouldn't have let it go on so long. I was never under the influence of this world. [ Not once, not for even a moment -- not the way that it matters. Akira was always fully aware that this was the wrong world, that this was a fake world, and he hates himself for the fact that even knowing that he was considering allowing it to continue.

He shouldn't love people, maybe, if this is what it gets him. He doesn't think he's done anything but make Akechi's life more of a drawn out misery. ]

[His voice remains largely hollowed out, but there's the barest of hints of his lofty irritation, now.]

Just because you've taken part in killing a God doesn't mean you are one. We'd all have been disqualified if that were the case.

[ Akira makes a noncommittal noise, like he agrees but can't quite make himself believe it, which is -- about how he feels about the entire situation. He can't quite get over this dark curl of guilt in his stomach.

Akira pulls his knees up, carefully, falling just short of completely folding in on himself. He lays his head back against the wall and then, softly, very carefully: ]

Were you happier?

[ He still doesn't know if what he's done is right. ]

[He puts away the items of the first aid kit in tense silence, clicking it shut and sighing, letting his shoulders sag.]

That isn't a fair question. [Of course he was happy to have his mother alive. Of course, not having been orphaned and passed around through the foster care system like an unwanted time bomb, only to extricate himself to hatch a plan of revenge that started and ended with blood on his hands was a "happier" life to lead, by default. But it was fake. It wasn't real, and he lived under the rule and thumb of a man who had decided for him what would be best for him, what would make and keep him happy. Even in his usual life of anger and a myriad of situations no one should have to face, let alone a child, he had always fought for his own agency. He wanted, if nothing else, to control his own fate.]

[So was he happier? If Akira wanted to hear it to be upset he couldn't make the world a painless utopia as Maruki had, yes. He was "happier", with his mother alive and his university entrance exams the biggest stress point in his life. But it wasn't his truth.]

I was worried that you were remembering because of me. [ Akira sounds a little distant, a little removed, a little dissociated from the entire situation. His gaze is flat against the opposite wall as he takes in the minor details of the differences. The baseboards are dusty. Were they dusty before? Did Maruki's illusion go that deeply? Did he account for a mother that was terrible at cooking but good at housekeeping?

Was that life the kind of life that Akechi's mother wanted? Did Maruki have to twist her emotions; did he change some fundamental part of her, or did her mind simply slip away from the topic every time she thought about her depression, about Shido, about dying?

It was never going to last. Akira tells himself that and wonders if it's true. ]

I know I should have tried to wake you up sooner. [ But everyone really was so happy, even if it wasn't real. ]

I knew it was wrong the first morning I woke up in a better-furnished condo with my mother alive. [He idly rubs his thumb along the gauze on his palm.] I just couldn't entirely access why that was wrong. Whether or not you played a part in my true consciousness breaking through the facade isn't worth stressing over.

[He rearranges himself carefully, shifting into a crouch and picking up the first aid kit. He pauses and scrutinizes Akira, sees the fragile exterior of calm barely concealing his trauma over the situation.] I appreciate you letting it happen on its own. You know I prefer to handle my own struggles.

You wanted to have a choice in things. [ Akira looks at the ceiling again, instead, and then raises a hand to push blearily at his eyes. His days are running together: he's been meeting with everyone, dropping hints that they should wake up. They haven't, yet. He watches them stutter and then start back up like a skipping CD, and he wonders if that's their choice, if they're making it consciously or not. ]

The palace is in Odaiba. He said we should all "take some time" to decide if we really want to defeat him.

[ Akira leaves it hanging in the air -- that he couldn't make the decision himself; that he didn't want to. He's been paralyzed with indecision, which is unusual, for him, but it felt like he was on a thin road and on either side of the road were endless ravines of additional trauma. There was no good choice. He didn't want to make any of them. ]

And I didn't, here. [He says it firmly, still scrutinizing Akira as he inches ever closer to his own catastrophic meltdown.]

There's no question, there. We'll see if the rest of your friends have the capacity to understand the importance of their own free will.

[ Akira keeps waiting for anger that hasn't come yet. He's waiting -- for Akechi to tell him he didn't do it fast enough, for Akechi to tell him he must have liked the other one better, for Akechi to do -- anything -- to blame him.

But Akechi hasn't, yet, and so Akira doesn't know what to do with all of the guilt he has inside of him. ]

I think they're happy. [ Akira says, inconclusively. And then, fainter: ] None of them remember how they met me.

[ Because they hadn't been phantom thieves. Because they'd just been -- students -- who had become friends despite being different people. There'd been no shared trauma; there'd been nothing to overcome. The bonds feel fragile. ]

[He isn't angry with Akira, because nothing about this situation had been his choice or his fault. He was an easy target for most of his rage when he didn't have a clear path to direct it in, but in this situation he was much, much readier to funnel his incandescence into a needle point to drive right through Takuto Maruki's right eye.]

[Besides, Akira being such a lost puppy about everything made him hard to be vicious with. It was a little frustrating.]

Don't decide that for them. You're no better than Maruki if you do.

[He stands, moving to the bathroom to replace the first aid kit and then standing at an angle to continue to watch Akira as he astral projected on his bedroom floor. It's not exactly concern he's feeling, he thinks-- he's grateful, overall, that Akira was the one to remember and despite that, he still gave Akechi the chance to wake up on his own. He just doesn't like that it's left him bereft of his confidence and the spark of his personality that first made him alluring.]

[There are a few ways to fix this, he thinks, and they all require Akira to purge the stress and the self-hatred, the assumed blame, from his system. His eyes narrow, and he moves back out into the bedroom.]

We both need rest. Do I need to escort you back to Leblanc, or is cohabitation for the time being an acceptable compromise?

[ Akira really does not want to be in Leblanc right now, with the sound of Wakaba's voice periodically drifting upstairs. Even the curry is faintly different -- Wakaba's had several more years to help make changes to it, after all. He can barely look at Morgana these days, and he's worried the smile on his face is starting to get too plastic. ]

...it's fine. I wasn't really expecting to go back tonight. [ In part because he was expecting to get socked in the jaw -- or manage to prevent something, maybe -- or something along those lines. He lets out a breath, slowly, and stands up. ]

You should eat the curry, if you can stomach it. [ Akira knows Akechi hasn't been eating, thanks to Akechi's mother. ]

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