stealhearted | after me comes the flood;

[He makes an ugly sound, pushing at him as he's drawn close. His chest heaves with how hard it is to breathe normally, but he refuses, outright, to sob.]

For fuck's sake, Akira-- I had the chance to have my mother alive again, and I killed her again instead, what about that makes me worth loving? You can't be serious. [Oh.]

If you killed her, then I'm equally responsible. [ Akira shifts, headbutts at Akechi almost desperately. His grip on him is too tight; his voice wavers slightly. He's thought about it: that choosing to go back to reality feels like he's killing everyone all over again, that he's breaking Ryuji's leg and throwing Shiho off a building and leaving half of his friends orphans. He hates it. He hates it more than anything, but it's wrong to stay in this reality --

It has to be, because even this, arguing with Akechi and crying in a genkan, feels more right than anything else. ]

There's a hundred things about you that I love and you won't believe them even if I list them all out, so if I can't believe that I love you then can't you believe that I need you? You're the only one that's ever seen me breakdown. I didn't even cry when they arrested me for assault, for fuck's sake. I just --

It's just you. It's always you, in the end.

[It grounds him, strangely, to be told he's the only one to ever see Akira break down. It confuses him, also, and he straightens up enough to look at him, confused and red-faced but not quite in tears.]

I-- are you stupid? Of all the friends you've had, you choose the asshole who tried to kill you several times?

I'm a little stupid. [ Akira offers him a slightly self-deprecating half smile, because he knows he must be a little stupid to love someone like Akechi, but -- knowing that hasn't stopped it in the slightest. Sometimes it feels like he's betraying Futaba and Haru, but -- he can't stop.

He hasn't been able to stop for months. ]

I tried. When we were having to make a plan because you were going to kill me -- I tried to be angry, or to pity you instead, or anything. But I couldn't. All I could think was how mad you were going to be when you found out. I thought it would be after we took down Shido. I thought you'd punch me in the face for doing it without you.

[It starts to sink in, slowly, that Akira really does fucking love him, for some inane and intensely idiotic series of reasons. Sure, he's attractive, and has wit and intellect sharper than Joker's dagger, but that's hardly enough to bury his transgressions. He sighs, and looks down at their hands again.] You really...

[And all he's shown for it is contempt, and anger, and disbelief. Violence, and calling him names, and spitting in the face of routinely gentle care, only when he thought Akechi might be able to accept it without crumbling.]

[His eyes abruptly burn, wetness seeping from their corners and he recoils, draws away his hands and throws his weight into the condo properly, kicking off his shoes and crawling away from him, uncoordinated.]

[Can't catch me, gay thoughts.]

[ Well, at least it seems to have sunk in. Akira watches him go, and then slowly raises himself back up to his feet to pad in after him. He isn't chasing, isn't even quite following Akechi's path -- just walking into the condo, unhurried. ]

...I'm going to start on the curry roux. [ Caramelizing onions should be a nice break for the both of them, and if either of them have misty eyes they can, quite literally, blame the food. ]

But I'm right here, okay? [ He's not going anywhere. He can't. He just... thinks Akechi might need a little space now. As much space as either of them can get in this cloying, frustrating little reality. ]

[He moves on all fours until he gets to the couch, pressing his face into the arm of it for a long while until he realizes Akira didn't follow him, and his words sink in. He's starting curry roux. He's giving him space. He's--]

[--infuriating.]

[He drags the pillow he had that morning off the couch and burrows into it for the second time that day, not entirely sorting through the last ten minutes of his life because he can't, thank you, but taking in several deep lungfuls of air and holding them to calm his racing heartbeat. After about five minutes, he presses his face fully into the pillow as deep as it will let him press, and yells for a solid fifteen seconds.]

[And then he gets up, puts the pillow back on the couch, and acts like nothing ever happened. Because of course he does.]

[He watches Akira in the kitchen warily, and then wanders toward his bedroom, only to stop at the mouth of the hallway and stand there a while. It blurs, for a moment, between what he's lived in for two years and Maruki's falsified version of it that included his mother, just to his emotion-addled mind. He closes his eyes and pivots again, moving into the kitchen just long enough to claim the small sunflower decoration he'd set on top of the fridge that morning. It gets moved, this time, to the small table at the end of the hallway.]

[It's going to hurt when he doesn't remember it's there and it reminds him of his mother, but it's going to hurt no matter where he puts it. At least this way, it's a small indication of where her room had been. The apartment he lived in with her as a child had been laid out similarly.]

[ Akira keeps an eye on Akechi. It's not hard. Akechi's knives are supremely unused, saved for his toast antics, so Akira makes quick work of the onion and then sets it to caramelizing, letting the smell of cooking onion flow throughout the condo. It's something that's very Akira, and he almost feels bad about the way he's overtaking Akechi's space. It feels a little like blotting out his mother --

But maybe it's just blotting out the false memory of her that should never have existed. She never lived in this condo; she never grew to have that many grey hairs she swept back into a ponytail; she never walked the path to Jazz Jin with Akechi and Akira and commented on the drinks Muhen served them.

None of that was real, so the memory is fake. Maybe it helps to erase it. Maybe it doesn't. Akira isn't sure anymore.

But: onions. They require enough attention that he can't exactly leave, but not so much that he has to baby them. He stirs them, idly, and watches Akechi out of the corner of his eye until Akechi seems to settle a little, moving the sunflower. ]

You like carrots, right?

[It takes him a second to register Akira spoke, then register he was speaking to him, and finally digest the question. He turns to look over his shoulder with a perplexed frown, succinctly knocked out of his own head by a figurative projectile carrot. It's a simple yes or no question, but he's so thrown off by it disrupting his thoughts he has to wander into the kitchen thinking about it.]

[From the doorway, warily,] ...yes.

I'll put in some extra ones. [ Akira offers him a smile, soft and casual, like it's -- totally normal to be in Akechi's condo, making curry and pretending nothing is wrong and they both haven't had a baker's dozen breakdowns between them in the past twenty-four hours. ]

I didn't go too crazy -- I've just got carrots, potatos, and beef. [ Yes, he's just going to talk about curry to keep some modicum of sanity. ] I think I quadrupled your spice cabinet.

Thank you, [His tone is... less wary, but still a little distant.] I think prior to your curry endeavors I owned salmon furikake and sugar, so that... is probably accurate, yes. Don't overextend yourself for my sake, you're well aware I don't eat terribly much.

It's relaxing to make. It's the same with coffee. It's... something that's not too challenging, but really rewarding to do right. [ Akira's voice is soft, and it's more of an insight than he'd give to most people -- but he's still trying to soothe Akechi. Akechi being calmer benefits the both of them, when they're not going absolutely wild in the Metaverse. ]

You've got cumin and garam masala now, to start.

[He gives an absentminded sniff to the air, closing his eyes a moment with a thoughtful hum.] Turmeric, too, it smells like. [He may not cook, but he does know food. It's sort of an odd placement.]

Yeah. It's a mix. I like to add a little cinnamon. Sojiro's got a whole list down to a science, but I'm determined to make my own. [ He wants a curry he can call his own. He may not be able to top Wakaba's science, but. He can sure try. It's worth a shot, he figures. ]

I mean, there's still a place for the grocery store stuff, but it's nice to be able to spend an hour caramelizing onions and not thinking about anything specifically. Once I spent awhile thinking about superheroes and how Joker is a terrible superhero name. I'm pretty sure there's a villain named Joker.

[He wanders slowly into the kitchen and watches Akira prod the onions while he talks, leaning against the counter roughly an arm's length away and crossing his ankles, lacing his fingers together.]

Yes, in an American comic line. He's one of the main supervillains in the Batman universe. [He would know this, the fucking nerd.]

Right? So I couldn't keep the codename Joker. Unless I was going to be more famous than a fictional villain. [ Akira looks like this a genuine conversation he would pursue, as he stirs his onions. The Phantom Thieves weren't really globally recognizable, so he thinks they're lacking a little in that department. ]

I guess it's lucky I'm a phantom thief, instead.

You carry a very different visual theme than The Joker in DC Comics, at least.

[He considers the onions, looking a bit sick for a moment.] ...thank you, by the way.

...yeah. You're welcome. [ Akira's voice is -- warm. He doesn't know what else there is to say. He thinks he could be happy, like this: making curry and having pointless little conversations with Akechi. He thinks moments like this stand out to him more than anything else. They've both nearly died, sometimes at the hand of the other; they've been through more than either of them ever should have, and at the end of it --

It's the quiet domesticity that gets Akira. It feels stolen everytime, like he's grasping at something he shouldn't be allowed. This quiet warmth, even if it's awkward, even if they're both struggling through it. ]

I'm still dragging you on errands later, so it's a calculated move on my part. [ It is not. He just likes cooking curry. But he can pretend. ]

[His expression mellows somewhat, and he hums, shrugging.]

A calculated risk, I'd say.

Good thing I aced my math quiz. [ Akira flashes him a smile again, because Akira has been acing all of his quizzes in part because he can't let Detective Prince Akechi Goro show him up too much. Even if Akira still can't quote Hegel at the drop of a hat. ]

[He chuckles, but the sound is largely humorless, and he turns to slide down the cabinets and sit on the floor.]

I hope you don't need help with anything, I'm useless in the kitchen.

I've got it. I like cooking, and it's... Something you always let me do for you. [ Akechi might not eat much, but he's never turned down food from Akira, it seems like. Akechi doesn't let Akira fuss over him the way Akira can fuss over everyone else, but -- at least he can do this much.

He's grateful for it, right now. ]

I am going to confiscate your knives if you use the good ones to butter your bread.

I could be using knives for much different purposes, and yet you choose to take issue with me using them for jam. Whatever will I do.

[He leans back against the cabinet, watching Akira from the floor.] What got you into cooking?

Well, you also shouldn't use your kitchen knives to fight. [ Akira punctuates this with a vague gesture with his spoon, in a true cooking wife fashion, before he gives his onions a good stir and then lets them sit. ]

My parents were really busy, and I got tired of convenience store bento and frozen food. [ Akira doesn't sound -- anything, about it; it's a little matter of fact, and the slightest bit rehearsed. ] So I started cooking, and then Sojiro is really into the science behind curry, so... natural progression, I guess.

I like having things to do with my hands.

[He hums softly, looking a bit chastised by the mention of getting tired of konbini and frozen food and drumming his fingers on his knees.] So much for me being a foodie, then, I suppose.

[He reaches up, swatting at the air.] Give me one. [Of his hands, he means, but-- an onion is fine, too.]

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