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Leblanc is surprisingly empty today. It's almost refreshing to see it so devoid of customers again. For the last four months, the café has been filled with people, day in and day out. It's been great for business, and Sojiro has never seemed happier. It's also been quite noisy. And a bit disorienting, too. You're not quite used to it yet.
It doesn't take long for you to find the person you're looking for, sitting at the near-empty bar. He's in his usual position — focused on his open laptop, next to a cup of coffee. Since going freelance, he's been coming here every weekday while he works. You don't think you've gotten used to that yet, either.
He's so engrossed in whatever he's reading that he doesn't notice you come up behind him. You tap on his shoulder and he jolts, breaking out of his trance to look behind him. He seems happy when he sees who it is.
"Oh, it's you! Welcome back."
> Polite as ever, huh?
> Honey, I'm home.
> How's the case going?
He turns to face you completely, looking a bit exhausted. "Progress has been a bit... slower than I'd prefer, but it's coming along," he says. "I said that I would be going freelance so that I could take it easy, but it feels as if I have just as much work as before."
> Your voice is like syrup.
> Sounds rough.
He smiles. "It can be quite draining, but it's fulfilling work. I don't think I would rather be doing anything else." His expression seems like a mask at first. You keep forgetting — that's just what his honesty looks like, now.
He turns back to close his laptop and start putting it away. "I suppose it is time to stop for today, though. Now that you're here, why don't we go do something?"
> Sojiro might need me to help out.
> What kind of something?
Sojiro, who's been quietly cleaning dishes the whole time, speaks up. "Does it look busy in here to you? I can handle it on my own." He cracks a smile. "You two should go have some fun."
"Thank you, Sakura-san." He turns to you, again. "How about a game of billiards?"
—
On the train ride to Kichijoji, he takes hold of your hand. He looks like he's blushing, slightly, as he does it. It's a rather normal thing to do. It shouldn't be unsettling. You think about how you can only feel the texture of his glove, not his skin, not the warmth of his body. If there were nothing underneath, you wouldn't be able to tell. When he lets his hand slip away at the train station, you don't try to take it back.
You arrive at the Penguin Sniper and head in to rent your table. "It's been a while since the last time we've done this," he says. You nod, and the two of you go over to the table and get ready to play.
You start the game. Both of you are doing well, as expected, but you're winning. It's not like it should be impossible for you to win — you've gotten a lot better since the first time you played against him — but it's too easy. Something's off.
> That's the wrong hand.
> You're holding back.
> Why are you using your right hand?
A second after the words leave your mouth, your vision flashes white, and everything briefly goes quiet. The moment you can hear and see again you suddenly feel so dizzy that you can barely stand, forcing you to grip the billiards table for support. Your head is pounding. Everything looks hazy, until your body adjusts to reality again, and the effect disappears almost as quickly as it came.
You try to regain your composure. Your opponent doesn't seem to have noticed what happened to you. He appears to still be contemplating your question.
"I wonder why...? I must have absentmindedly used the wrong one," he says, looking just as confused as you are. "My mistake." He throws you a sheepish grin.
You find it a little hard to focus after that, but you get back into the swing of things soon enough. The score is much closer now — his playing is noticeably improved, making better shots and using the same advanced techniques that you are. It's getting competitive. Tense. You almost forget where you are as you get lost in the game.
Finally, it's over. He won in the end, although the game was close enough that you feel like you could probably win next time. You look at him, expecting to hear a smug declaration of victory, or maybe some disappointment that you're still not at his level —
"What a thrilling game! Your skills are truly impressive," he says, grinning.
You are reminded that the words you have come to expect from him, the voice you have come to expect, are not him anymore.
He doesn't seem like he notices the expression on your face. "I don't know about you, but I don't feel like going home just yet. Why don't we play a game of darts as well?"
You nod.
—
"Let's play 701. It'll be more fun that way."
You miss every single one of your throws.
—
The two of you walk down the steps of the entrance to the Penguin Sniper and onto the street. “That was the worst performance I’ve ever seen from you,” he laughs. “What happened?”
> I’m not sure.
> My mind was somewhere else.
> I should be heading home.
You’re not feeling well, and besides, it’s getting dark out. It’s not weird for you to leave now.
“Ah… I see,” he says, softer than before. “It is getting quite late.”
He’s not meeting your gaze, but you can still see how dejected he looks. He’s like a puppy left out in the rain. You know the face, you’ve seen it, but it’s never seemed genuine before. Right now, you know exactly what he’s thinking. Anyone would. It scares you, and you try to ignore it, but you can’t.
You don’t want to see him look like that any longer. It’s not right. He’s not supposed to. You chose this so that he could be happy. So that he could be here, and happy, and the two of you could be happy together, not thinking about the past. But you always think too much. You think about how you’ll never be able to hear his real voice again, low and dripping with venom. You think about how you will never be able to have the conversations you had before, because while this version of him is still so smart, and so knowledgeable about so many things, he has never been through any of the hells that made him who he is, and he never will. You reached such a deep understanding with him, of him, more than anyone you have ever or will ever know, and you think about how it is now gone, and how you will forget, as your memories are slowly replaced by the days spent with this friendly, cheerful, perfectly normal imitation. You think about the lies you tell yourself to feel like you chose this for his sake, when you just couldn’t bear to think about going on without him. You think about how you are trapped in a nightmare of your own creation, with a boy reanimated against his will, whose brain was rewired to think that this is what he wanted all along.
You don’t want to think anymore, and you don’t want to see him look like that anymore.
> Wanna come home with me?
The sadness melts off his face, replaced by surprise, then by warm affection, by a glimmer of hope. His eyes are open windows and you cannot look away.
“I would love to.”
—
You find yourself sharing your bed in the attic with him a few hours later, wrapped in a mutual embrace. It’s cramped, but not uncomfortable. The confined space is almost soothing.
He’s already fast asleep, breathing slowly in your arms. His face is peaceful. Serene, really. The sight of it seems like another thing that should be comforting to you, but it doesn’t make you feel much of anything.
You can’t seem to sleep, but you can’t lie awake with your thoughts, either. If you don’t keep your mind clear, you start to think too much again, predictably. Thinking about how if you couldn’t feel his breathing, you wouldn’t be able to tell if he were dead or alive. Thinking about what his face might have looked like after the wall came down in the engine room. Thinking about if it looked anything like this, even for a second.
You decide it’s time to shut off your brain and try to go to sleep again.
—
It’s still dark outside. You’re acutely aware of how cold your skin is.
Your arms are empty. It looks like at some point in the night, Akechi escaped their hold. From the expression on his face, he seems to be as cold as you.
You realize as soon as you put your hands on him again that you were wrong. You can feel his blood boiling where you touch. His skin sears yours. His flesh is fusing to yours. It hurts more than anything you could ever imagine. You don’t pull away.
Instead, you push deeper, slowly. It feels as if your fingers are disappearing beneath his skin, melting and becoming liquid glass.
Akechi’s eyes are open. You meet his gaze — it’s piercing, full of hatred. You have never felt more at ease.
You jolt awake to still-freezing hands gripping the other boy's arms so hard they look like they might burst. The loathing stare is gone, replaced by wide eyes filled with worry and shock.
“Akira, what’s wrong?”
You let go, but can’t find the words to explain. There’s a moment of silence. In it, his expression softens.
“Did you have another nightmare?” His voice is soft. Anyone else would think of it as soothing.
He’s worried about you. You can see it so clearly, in his eyes, in his face that hides nothing. It has nothing to hide. There is no darkness.
> This isn’t you.
> You’re not him.
> I’m fine.
He doesn’t believe you. You find yourself wrapped in his embrace again. It’s cold.
“If you need to talk about it… I’m always here. Please, remember that.”
His voice is like honey. You search in vain for something trapped behind the cloying sincerity, but you can’t find it. You never do.
You lightly return his embrace, carefully positioning your hands on his back, unable to grasp anything but his shirt. The burning sensation lingers in your mind as you drift back to sleep.