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It starts, with what awareness is left of Akira’s brain after everything that has transpired, at the train station.
The train doesn’t leave until a few more minutes after. Akira has his elbow propped against the windowsill, his phone not too far from it. Morgana seems to be having the time of his life nestled inside his bag, jostling and shuffling as if Akira isn’t bringing anything else but him. It’s comforting that one of the friends he’s managed to make in the city—his first friend, even—is going back with him. There’s barely any other passenger in the train but it’s the least of his concerns; if Akira is going to be honest with himself, he’s barely in the present. He knows where he is, knows where he’s headed to, knows who he‘s with.
To no one’s surprise, battling a god that wants to defeat you and erase the very essence of humanity while you’re barely seventeen does irreparable damage that goes beyond physical ones. Akira relaxes against the seat, face devoid of distress. He must be doing well if Morgana isn’t meowing near his ear.
When he reaches for his phone, familiar colors pass by the corner of his eye. He sits up and turns his head in an instant, like it’s instinct to react whenever he sees a tan peacoat and black pants worn together. He sees nothing and nobody, however. His eyes remain on the same spot of the train station, pupils barely surveying the rest of the area. He’s gotten up from his seat before he even realizes, squeezing past the distance between the seats in front of them and carefully avoiding leaning too much of his weight against his bag. Morgana calls his name when he’s already by the door, but he’s taking huge and fast strides to get to where he sees the faintest glimpse of Akechi and—
And there’s nobody there.
He’s expected this, and yet—expectation doesn’t exactly equate to complete acceptance. He repeatedly turns his head, extends his neck to see if Akechi is around any corner or is getting on another train, walks back and forth while narrowly avoiding other people. The pitiable situation doesn’t sink in his bones until he sees Morgana tapping his paws on the train window, meowing as if Akira will hear him. Akira exhales, a heavy breath out of his mouth, and his shoulders slowly drop. He gets back on the train, shoulders hunched and hands back in his pockets like he did not just run after the vaguest image of… a peer. An acquaintance.
A friend, even if Akechi denies him that privilege.
For two seconds, he sees Joker reflected in the train mirror, and Akira has to take his glasses off immediately before anything else happens. Under the pretense of merely wiping his lenses, he takes shallow breaths, and prays to whoever is listening that Morgana doesn’t stick his head out now of all times.
When the train signals its departure, Akira pulls down the blinds and doesn’t dwell on things any longer. Bygones are bygones, the world is safe as long as it is allowed to be safe, and Akira is finally going home with a clean record.
He’s never heard of somebody starting a new life while coming home to the roof where they spent most of their life under, but he will do exactly that. Tokyo holds a lot of memories and people that share those memories, but for now they are safe and doing the best that they can, and Akira is finally headed home.
Despite the change Akira has undergone for a year, the house remains as it is.
There’s nothing else he can comment regarding the state of things; the arrangement of the furniture is the same, two pairs of his shoes remain unmoved on the shoe rack, and—well, at least they had the time and money to buy a new vase that sits beside the television. His shoes on his hand weigh heavy enough that holding it with two fingers eventually shakes him out of his stupor. As he places them beside his other shoes, Morgana finally pops his head out of his bag with a yawn.
“So, when were you gonna tell me that we’re already here?” Akira rolls his eyes when Morgana meows too close in his ear. “Woah! You didn’t tell me your house is big! ”
Akira sets his bag down so Morgana can hop off and take everything in better. He doesn’t want to grace the second question with an answer, so he says: “Welcome home.”
Familiarity rings at the back of his head and it takes everything in him not to freeze while he’s crouching down. A memory, relatively distant, vaguely plays in Akira’s head. The scent of Sojiro’s coffee and a smile teetering in between sarcasm and amusement makes him swallow nothing. For a second that was barely brief to Akira, he’s back in Tokyo, wiping the counter, with Akechi across from him, wearing whatever sweater vest made him feel confident that day.
“Akira…”
Akira licks his lips, lets Akechi’s death sit as heavy as it can in his chest, before he shakes his head. “Akira!” Morgana calls, a little louder, and Akira turns his head to see him sitting right beside the new vase. He doesn’t find it in him to tease Morgana about the slightly worried look he’s receiving.
His fingers still have to release his shoes and completely put them down. Akira clenches his fist once before letting go.
“... I didn’t know you guys owned a second floor.” Morgana reels him in, eyes still on Akira as he grooms himself. “Let’s go up. You should get some rest.”
Akira licks his lips again. “I don’t…”
Morgana shakes his head as he hops off and starts heading towards the stairs. “I wanna see what you guys have up here, so hurry!”
Akira takes one good look at the rest of the house before exhaling. It’s familiar not in the way Leblanc is; he knows where everything is, how everything looks. This house has seen more of him than his parents ever have but—it’s simply not Leblanc, and Akira still has to categorize how he feels about that.
When he sees Morgana continue his grooming by his bedroom door, Akira shrugs as he adjusts his bag on his shoulder. “Rest.” Morgana says the moment the door opens, and Akira doesn’t find it in him to argue.
“You’re back.”
“The other day, yes…”
Akira can sometimes not kick a gift horse in the mouth. No need to think about how his parents weren’t even available on the exact day he arrived. He’s chewing his beef slowly as Dad shrugs while pushing his glasses up. “Welcome back.”
He tries not to fixate on the lack of the word home in the greeting. He chews on his beef harder. “Thank you.”
“Made any friends in Tokyo?” Mom’s voice is the usual, but not hearing it for a year grates a little in Akira’s ear. He bounces his leg under the table. “Several.”
“Huh,” Dad looks at him, an eyebrow raised. “Surprised anybody ever talked to you while you were under probation?”
This, Akira is familiar with. The bluntness does not hurt as much as getting stabbed or training for hours in the Metaverse. He finally swallows, albeit slowly. “They didn’t mind.”
“And you brought back a cat with you?” To that, Morgana meows by Akira’s feet. Akira looks at Mom, waiting for another scathing comment. “Who made you benevolent and generous back in Tokyo?”
“He’s Morgana.” Akira shrugs. His eyes are back on his food. “None of them could look after him properly.”
Mom takes one look at Morgana—who meows and bats his eyes at her—before her eyes are on Akira again. “How many friends did you make, exactly? And don’t tell me this cat is included.”
“Rude.” Morgana meows, a little on the louder side. “So what if you have a cat as a friend?”
“I don’t count,” Akira says instead, chewing on new beef pieces. “I lost one, however…”
Dad snorts, like he’s been waiting for Akira to say those exact words. “Not surprised.”
“He died.” Akira looks him straight in the eye, teeth clenching on the beef and rice inside his mouth. The gift horse no longer holds any value to him as he says it, he’s more interested in how his parents will react.
As expected, Dad doesn’t say much but raises his eyebrows. He hears Mom gasp, quiet. Akira only spares her a glance. The familiarity is equally freeing and heavy to him. He doesn’t realize he hasn’t been chewing until Morgana rubs his head against his leg that’s still bouncing. When he chews, there’s a bitter taste in his mouth and weight in his jaw.
“Condolences.” Mom says after a moment of quiet. Akira nods, finishes his dinner shortly after. Before he stands up to wash his dishes, he asks, “New vase…?”
She shakes her head, immediately recognizing what vase he’s talking about. “Not so new. We got it a few months after you left for your probation.”
Akira does not know what to say to that. There’s nothing to say when the world continues to turn even when your feet are rooted to the ground. He nods, pushes his chair back and bows at his parents, before leaving the dining table.
There is a dormant hunger at the bottom of his stomach, somewhere. He doesn’t recognize it enough yet to put a name on it.
Months pass by like time is nothing but a joke.
There’s more adjustment than Akira expected, from being used to Morgana’s constant time management reminders, to his days now blurring into one. Summer break came and went by a few blinks—admittedly, he remembers the date depending on what conversation he’s having with a friend, or all of them sometimes—and school is, well, school. Not a single threat towards his life nor the entirety of humanity is directed at him, even after weeks of homework and crammed quizzes. There’s no need to train for whatever horror is about to greet him and Morgana, no need to infiltrate an adult’s wretched palace and plan an escape route after reforming their hearts, no need to sit on the edge of his seat at all times. It’s the life Akira has envisioned for himself the moment he got off on Tokyo, and yet.
“Kurusu,” Miss Hanamori calls, her chalk pointed towards the blackboard. A faint memory of a chalk being thrown in his direction flashes, before she asks her question again. “The Pythagorean Theorem, if you would please?”
If Morgana was here, he would’ve long reprimanded Akira for being distracted. They agree on letting him stay at home this time, because there’s no longer a threat greater than humanity and the universe anymore.
“A squared plus B squared equals C squared,” It’s a no-brainer, and yet Akira doesn’t find it too easy to relax against the back of his seat. Miss Hanamori nods, not before flashing him a small smile, and proceeds with the lecture. He doesn’t hear murmurs about his jaded reputation nor astonishment at how he handled the question with ease. He blends in as good as a transferee manages to and he’s slowly making new friends without life-altering situations created by adults and their delusions.
And yet, when the afternoon transitions from a warm, striking heat to a calm breeze, Akira Kurusu finds himself missing Goro Akechi.
He’s the dead friend he once mentioned to his parents during dinner—and never again, because it doesn’t feel right, and it still doesn’t feel real—and he’s stayed dead for months now. Not a single trace of him that Akira can get his hands on. Futaba is there, and he can easily ask her to look for him even in the smallest of crevices and in the most hopeless corners of the world, but it comes with the weight of the possibility that he really is dead.
Akira glances at his watch. Four twenty-six does not seem like an appropriate time to doubt a—peer, an acquaintance, a once-rival’s death, and yet.
Classes finish like a breeze, again. As usual. Akira is neither here nor there when one of the guys he’s been slowly warming up to—Yamamoto, if his memory serves him right—asks him if he wants to hang out and get popsicles with him at the nearby convenience store, even if the wind that caresses Akira’s nape makes him shiver in the slightest.
His hair is growing longer. Akira wonders if Akechi would have already gotten a haircut by now.
He ends up agreeing to the invitation, along with another boy and two girls in their class. They’re lively and already familiar with each other, and Akira is more than willing to walk two steps behind even if he’s situated in the middle. They don’t purposely ignore him, but they’re talking about how somebody swapped chocolates between different people during Valentine’s day and White day last year. Akira’s fingers fiddle with the loose threads in his pockets until one of them—one of the girls, Akane—points at the convenience store and nudges his arm before walking a beat faster.
Akira idles by the ice cream freezer, eyes glossing at the varying colors and sizes. Akane and Fukuhara debate on which chips they should split their pocket change on, while Yamamoto and Hirose idle by the vending machines outside. There’s little to no other students here, and yet Akira’s shoulders still can’t find it in them to relax. He continues to drum his fingers on the glass, eyes going back and forth on the popsicles section and the ice cream cups section.
“Hey,” He would have jumped, if only he wasn’t getting used to Fukuhara’s tendency to make barely any noise when she walks. “How’s the ice cream selection going for you?”
“... I think I’m getting a popsicle.” Akira pushes his glasses up with one hand and slides the freezer open with the other.
“Nice.” He feels her peer over his shoulder for a few seconds while he feels whichever popsicle is the most compact. “I like that brand. Maybe you’ll like the one with twin popsicles?”
Akira hums, his hand hovering on a twin popsicle. “I’ll try it out. Thank you, Fukuhara.”
She waved him off before flanking towards the cashier. When Akira is standing behind her and Akane in line, the radio perched beside the counter mentions—Akechi Goro, Detective Prince, and Akira tries his best either not to spasm or to rush towards the cashier just to confirm if he heard the words right. He listens carefully, doesn’t even pay attention when Fukuhara mentions his name to Akane, but the words never come around again. The scratchy voice from the radio mocks him especially when it’s his turn to pay. Like this, he hears every word louder and clearer, and yet there’s not a single sign of Akechi getting another mention again.
If he was even mentioned, that is.
The radio host proceeds to talk about recently discovered home remedies about—Akira doesn’t know, really, doesn’t really find it in himself to care. He pays the exact amount and only bows to the cashier when their transaction is done. He walks as slow as he can towards the door without looking ridiculous or suspicious, because they’re all waiting for him before they split up and go home. Not even the word detective comes up anymore, by the time Akira is pushing the door open, so he shakes his head and tears the popsicle packing apart with no hesitation.
When it’s only him and Yamamoto walking down their usual streets, the memory of Akechi exposing himself to them because of pancakes plays in Akira’s head. The popsicle is almost finished when his house comes to view. Yamamoto waves him goodbye when they reach the street that separates the two of them, but not before saying: “You haven’t let go of the plastic.”
Akira looks down to where Yamamoto is pointing. He waves him off, the plastic bunched in a circle in the same hand he uses to wave, before exhaling. It doesn’t last any longer in Akira’s hand once he passes by the trash can by the corner of their street, but the feeling of its edges against his palm remain.
Later, when Morgana smells the popsicle off of him, he demands a treat from Akira, because It’s been so boring here, being all alone! and that I was being very brave about it, really! Akira huffs, shakes his head, and promises him a treat tomorrow, while trying to remember if Akechi has ever mentioned his favorite ice cream flavor to him.
When he gets Morgana’s treat in the morning, he starts making himself coffee the same way he makes it back in Leblanc.
Ryuji
Dude. Its been seriously a while since we’ve seen each other
Futaba
uh, yeah?? have u forgotten that he literally went back home?? a few months ago??
| I miss Tokyo
| I miss T
Ryuji
Oh quit it you. Dont make me tell him about you failing a test
Futaba
DUDE. DONT EVEN GO THERE.
Ryuji
Im sooo about to go there you have no idea
| I miss you guys, actually.
| I miss y
Yusuke
Ah, yes. Another day where it’s just you two duking it out and terrorizing the group chat. Really lovely. Let’s please keep this up, shall we?
Ryuji
You can literally mute it
Futaba
hell ill even do it for you inari if you have no idea how to :p
Haru
Everyone’s so lively! :)
Futaba
skull is literally going to kill me
well
ryuji***
Ryuji
Thats right. Heh
BUT WHY DO YOU STILL CALL YUSUKE INARI?????
Futaba
wouldnt u like 2 know heh
Ryuji
Uh yeah dude. Thats why Im asking
| Do you guys ever think about Akechi?
| Do you guys ever think a
| Do you guys think Akechi is alive?
| Do you guys think A
| Do you g
Ryuji
Uh captain. My dude
Been typing like crazy for a while since earlier
Yusuke
I’ve noticed as well. Care to share?
Futaba
want me 2 hack his phone or sumn lol
No need.
I’ve been trying to say that I’m doing well here
But I wouldn’t mind seeing you guys soon
Ryuji
AWWW. DUDE. WE SHOULD TOTALLY HANG OUT SOON
Futaba
checking everybodys calendar immediately to see when we’re all free lol
Makoto
well. more messages to read for me again
good to see you, akira
let’s all video call soon?
Haru
We should! :)
Ann
YEAH WE SHOULD
Sorry! I just woke up from a nap UGHHH.
Ryuji
Here come miss busy pants
Ann
Shut up!
And if anything, thats Makoto!
They all ask him to show them his house via video call when it happens.
His parents aren’t home as usual, so it doesn’t take much begging and convincing for Akira to trudge down the stairs, his phone on one hand and his other arm wrapped around Morgana. Ryuji’s eyes are the closest they can get near his camera as if it helps him see everything clearer. Akira is sure Futaba is taking as many screenshots as she can of Ryuji’s squished up face. Yusuke is asking Akira to focus on each and every furniture and decoration his eyes catch on—he sees the not-so-new vase, of course, and he goes off explaining how the colors and the lines compliment each other, but he criticizes it’s position in Akira’s house, to which he can only shrug and say Sorry, Mom’s rules before Yusuke gets distracted with the hanging painting above their couch—and Haru is drinking tea, the most unbothered person in the call, with a proper video call set up and an array of snacks beside her. Makoto is working, typing frantically on her laptop and only occasionally glancing on her propped up phone on her side to see what topic is already being discussed in the call.
Only Ann asks him a lot of questions about his hometown. She asks him about his schoolwork, the friends he’s made, the school clubs and events he’s joined. He tells her: It’s more or less the same as what we had. I have four friends that I walk home with whenever we’re all free. I haven’t really participated much, but the friends I mentioned all expect me to be with them during school events and festivals.
When everyone has settled down, more or less, it’s also Ann who brings him up, although not directly. She offhandedly asks, while filing her nails, “Has anybody heard of that, I quote, up and coming detective that’s, and I quote again, too young for his prowess?”
Akira stops right in front of his bedroom door, his eyes glued on Ann, who is also frozen on his screen. Guilt is evident in the way she opens and closes her mouth but doesn’t manage to say anything. Ryuji, Yusuke, and Futaba are no longer playfully bickering over Yusuke’s questionable decoration choices. Haru sets down her teacup, her eyes never leaving her drink. Even Makoto stops typing, picking up her phone and setting it right in front of her.
“... Who?” Akira asks, voice weak. Morgana rubs his face against his legs, listening in on the conversation.
“Uh,” Ann finally gets a sound out, although to no avail after that anymore. Makoto rubs the bridge of her nose. “Just a high schooler who has helped the police solve minor cases here and there.”
“Who?” Akira asks again, but louder and clearer this time. He gets inside his room and shuts his door behind him with force and swiftness that makes Futaba and Haru jump a little in their seats. “Sorry.”
“It’s alright…” Haru waves both her hands in front of the camera. “If I remember correctly, his name is Aikawa Chishiki. It sounds…”
“Weird. That’s what it sounds like.” Ryuji butts in, nodding with his hand rubbing his chin. “Sounds pretentious. And—hey, I know what that word means now!” Makoto scoffs, a small smile on her lips.
“Complicated character for a name…” Yusuke nods to himself.
“That’s only complicated for people who are slow, so I got news for you, Inari.” Futaba immediately pipes up, a grin so wide on her face that Akira nearly forgets about the heavy feeling sitting in his chest yet again. He sits on his computer chair, Morgana immediately jumping on his lap and making himself comfortable there. “Aikawa Chishiki? Never heard of him.”
“Obviously.” Ryuji scoffs loud enough for Morgana to roll his eyes at him. “It’s a new name, and you’re not here in Tokyo.”
“Well,” Makoto is still rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Whatever the case…”
They all look at Akira with eyes that carry emotions ranging from pity to regret to pain to guilt. He doesn’t want to know how he looks to all of them.
Still, Akira forces himself to push his glasses back up just to break eye contact. He wants to tell them about the time when he saw Akechi’s figure before his train could leave Tokyo, or when he’s heard the radio say his name, a name that hasn’t been said by anyone in what seems to be forever , or about his dreams that feel like reality; he’s Joker again, training in the Metaverse with Akechi criticizing and praising him in the same breath. When he makes contact with Akechi, there’s weight under his fingertips that feel too warm and tangible for him to be dead and forgotten.
He says none of that, however, and settles with the first thing that his mouth comes up with, which unfortunately is still related to the guy they all tiptoe around: “Have any of you heard from Akechi?”
They take a few seconds to look at each other before shaking their heads or verbally denying anything. “Haven’t really heard from him since the, uh,” Ryuji scratches his head with a small smile. “Yeah.”
“I haven’t heard from him, either.” Yusuke’s eyebrows are obviously pinched, even when he’s looking down. “But from what I know, isn’t he already…”
“None on my end as well.” Haru interjects, her mouth behind her teacup.
“I mean, I can,” Futaba fiddles with the wire of her headphones, avoiding eye contact as she types away on her computer. “I’ll see what I can do, but so far…” She looks at Akira, only to shake her head at him.
“Sorry.” Ann finally says, inhaling and exhaling once, before continuing. “I haven’t heard from him.” She bites her bottom lip after.
“None for me, too.” Makoto sighs, leaning against the back of her seat. Morgana makes a sound at the back of his throat as if his tail has been stepped on. “But Akira, isn’t he already dead? That’s what we know, right?”
Akira’s glasses slide down and he does nothing to push them back up.
“Listen…” Makoto starts, the tone of her voice teetering towards being the leader figure that she is even when Joker is around. “I…”
Akira maintains eye contact with her. The silence is nearly deafening and Akira almost misses Yusuke explaining various textures and tones of one of their paintings. Almost.
“As much as we are all sad, to a degree, we… have to accept that Akechi is no longer with us.” Futaba sniffs, but doesn’t say anything after Makoto speaks. Her fingers are typing even faster without her looking down at her keyboard. “Akira…”
“Yes.” Akira cuts her off, finally looking away. Morgana presses himself closer against Akira’s body, quietly purring. “Yes, Makoto.”
“No, I—” Makoto shakes her head as she rubs her eyes. Akira vividly remembers how Akechi’s eyes are of the similar shade as hers. “I mean that with no offense whatsoever, okay? He can still live within our memories. Just…”
“I get it.” Akira clears his throat. “It’s okay, forget that I asked.”
Akira’s eyes are on Morgana, who is looking up at him with the largest teary eyes he can muster at the moment. He feels the rest of them looking at each other though, waiting for whoever is willing to cut through the thick and awkward air. Like this, Akira is reminded that the world doesn’t wait for anyone, no matter how hard he tries.
It’s Haru who unexpectedly breaks the tension, shrieking as she nearly drops her teacup. Everybody snaps their head up at her, who frantically waves at everyone with her free hand. “Crisis averted, everyone! No worries.”
“Whew, thank heavens, Haru,” Ann dramatically wipes an invisible bead of sweat off. She’s better at acting these days. “What would have happened to the world if your limited edition skirt were to be stained by nothing but mere tea?”
Makoto snorts, hiding her mouth behind her fist. Futaba does the opposite, laughing as loud as she can. Yusuke shakes his head, and Ryuji asks about the price of Haru’s outfit. He so obviously pales when Haru enumerates the zeros, and all is well starting then. Even Morgana is smiling, poking fun of Ryuji here and there. Later, Akira asks Futaba how Sojiro is doing, and their conversations branch out from there with no chance of going back to its roots. He also sends a message to Yoshizawa when he remembers, picking back up on their conversation about how she’s been into cycling around her neighborhood recently.
The world continues to turn, Akira realizes, and it’s equally freeing and heavy of a realization.
Dinners with his parents turn into occasional breakfasts together as well. Akira still can’t make heads or tails about it.
He’s sitting in his designated chair—they all are—chewing as slow as he can. His eyes fleet between Dad and Mom, as if anticipating something, anything. It’s been months since he’s been back home and—heads or tails. He doesn’t know how to feel regarding all this change being slowly shoved down his throat.
He shoves the bread in his mouth instead, distantly reviewing in his head whatever answer he’s written down for his homework.
“I’ll be late tonight.” Dad breaks the silence, his eyes reading the daily newspaper with ease. The first time he announced his whereabouts and how late he might be coming back home, Akira’s coffee mug nearly slipped from his hands. Life goes on, however, so he sits and waits for the rest of what Dad is about to say. “And maybe cut down the caffeine intake, Akira.”
Akira is halfway shoving the rest of his bread in his mouth when Dad looks at him, his glasses sliding down in the slightest. Mom scoffs, spreading butter with the knife she always uses. “Send a teenager to Tokyo for a year and they come back overly dependent on coffee. What has that old man from Leblanc even taught you?”
That makes Akira’s eyebrows furrow. He sits a little straighter, and before he corrects Mom, Morgana rubs his face around his ankles the same time his phone lights up from a notification. Yamamoto sends him three short messages—just him begging in different ways for Akira to come to school as soon as possible so he can teach him the homework—which makes Akira shake his head. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips and he stuffs the rest of his bread in his mouth before standing up.
“I’ll be off.” Akira doesn’t wait for an answer. He never would have done that while eating with Sojiro and Futaba. His shoes feel a little tighter when he starts brisk walking to school.
The morning air calms his nerves and he walks slower when the school comes into view.
Yamamoto immediately opens his blank worksheet at Akira’s face, a small smile on his face. Akira scoffs, wiping the lens of his glasses before taking his homework out of his bag.
“Why do we even have to submit this today,” Yamamoto sniffs, not even trying to hide his frown. “It’s already going to be the sports festival next week, anyway.”
“It is exactly because of that,” Hirose says, arranging and rearranging his notebooks and portfolios. Akira already knows he’s going to flatten the blue folder behind his graphing notebook, but seeing it happen in front of him is satisfying in ways he can’t explain how. “Just one more week.”
“Whatever.” Yamamoto sniffs again, and only then does Akira feel the coldness of the season. Small blessings sometimes come in the form of Morgana nagging him this morning into bringing a scarf. He doesn’t register its color until he’s pulling it out of his bag and—
It’s red. The very same shade of red that Akechi’s scarf is, even if his’ was striped. The scarf that he used to wear the most when they—
Maruki’s face flashes for two seconds, the same way he remembers seeing Joker’s reflection on the train station window around eight months ago. He remembers Yoshizawa, the dull and dark red of her hair, the smile she used to flash in the extremely rare moments where Akechi’s snark and sarcasm does not cut too deep and personal—
“Hey,” Akira gets jostled back to reality when Akane nudges his shoulder with her elbow. She looks up at him, hoping his eyes aren’t too blank and lost. “You’re looking at that scarf like it killed your family.”
“Um,” Akira says, rather eloquently considering his mental state as of the moment. Fukuhara laughs, quiet and gentle, and feels the scarf in Akira’s hands. She nears her face to examine the fabric further, and Akira has half a mind to move his head away so they don’t hit each other. “It’s so firm.”
“Hah, obviously, what did you expect from someone who came from Tokyo?” There’s pride and lightheartedness in Akane’s voice as she feels the scarf herself. “Oh, wow, yeah, that does feel nice.”
“Thank you…” Akira’s grip on his scarf slowly loosens, and he slowly slides his hands off it until he’s holding nothing but the edges. “A gift from a friend back there…”
Akane and Fukuhara exchange looks before they smirk at him, although with Fukuhara’s gentle features, it doesn’t look anything but a small smile. “Just a friend?”
Akira’s throat is dry when an image of Akechi, his eyebrows scrunched and his mouth curved into a frown, flashes in his head. He can only lick his lips. The scarf in his—their hands, because they’re still enamored by the quality—hands feel heavier. Akira knows it’s not because of the weight of their hands.
Akane’s smirk gets wider every second Akira doesn’t grace her with an answer. He shakes his head. “Yes, an upperclassman—”
Fukuhara gasps, letting go of the scarf to cover her mouth. “From an upperclassman!”
“It’s not like that…” Akira shakes his head as he scratches his nape. He doesn’t have the time to correct them when Yamamoto slides him back his homework. “Thanks, Kurusu.”
“You owe me a popsicle, the chocolate one I always get.” He flashes a smirk at Yamamoto, who deflates in the seat to his left with a questioning glare in his eyes. “In this weather?”
Akane whistles, low and quiet, as she sits behind Akira. “Tokyo kids are built differently somehow.” Miss Sato arrives before he can correct her. He settles on slowly wrapping the scarf around his neck and letting the day pass idly.
He doesn’t tell anyone that in his bed, with Morgana curled by his side, he’s researching what he remembers of Akechi’s cologne that night, and the many nights after that.
Growing up in the countryside never warranted Akira to collect coats and scarves.
Before Tokyo, he only had a gray coat, two scarves, and barely used gloves. Having a heater at home also lessened the urge to buy new winter garments, and Akira has never wanted to be a fashion influencer. It’s only after Ann’s and Haru’s—never Yusuke’s, heaven forbid—influence that he owns more than his usual.
Standing in front of his open closet, with multiple coats and scarves on hangers in varying colors, is something Akira never saw himself doing in the near future.
The Early-to-Mid December air doesn’t faze him; his skin and body temperature have more or less adjusted back to the default already. He’s already asked permission from his parents to spend the 25th back in Tokyo with Sojiro and his friends two weeks ago, so it’s only appropriate to pick whatever he’s going to wear and what clothes he’ll be bringing already. His gift for Makoto—coffee beans in a transparent jar and a planner for next year—is already in a gift bag, situated below all his hanging clothes. He runs his fingers from one coat to another until he stops to a navy blue one that barely passes below his knees. He’s worn it twice, if he remembers correctly, and its pockets are the most comfortable ones he’s ever stuffed his hands in. He has a light blue scarf that matches the buttons of the coat, and he already knows which pants and shoes he’ll be wearing these with.
When he sees Morgana looking up at him from the bottom part of his closet, right beside Makoto’s gift, Akira inhales slowly.
“Akira…” Morgana says, using the same tone he’s used the first time they arrived. It’s been a few good months since then, but Akira still remembers the exact face Morgana dons at that moment, because it’s the exact one he’s using while looking at him.
Time flies, the world turns, and yet some things remain.
“The bags under your eyes are getting worse…” Morgana huffs. His eyebrows are scrunched—as scrunched as a cat’s eyebrows can get, and it would have been cute if they were not about to have this conversation again—and his mouth is curved down. “You haven’t been sleeping well again.”
Akira doesn’t tell anyone, but the first few weeks after he moved back, he couldn’t get more than five hours of sleep. Even five hours was gratuitous; Morgana didn’t catch on until Akira accidentally woke him up by pressing his elbow against one of his paws. He was looking up pictures of Akechi and—really, anything that mentioned Goro Akechi. He nearly fell asleep reading one of the earliest articles written about him, praising the up and coming Detective Prince who is more efficient than some of the detectives and police that’s twice his age. Akechi looks young in the picture they attached, his smile not too confident and yet pleasing to look at all the same. When his phone slowly slides out of his grip, Akira jolts awake and presses his elbow against whatever, and—it wasn’t exactly a new thing to be scolded by Morgana, but he hasn’t done that too much ever since they moved.
“Just catching up on schoolwork,” which isn’t exactly a lie, but it’s not what Morgana wants to hear. Akira doesn’t know what Morgana wants to hear, the same way he doesn’t know why his closet is stuffed with coats and scarves and sweater vests that are too similar to Akechi’s.
Akira swallows nothing, his grip on his navy blue coat tightening. Some things you can’t let go even when the world turns and turns and leaves you behind.
“In any case…” Morgana exhales. There’s a quip at the tip of Akira’s tongue, something about Morgana gaining eyebags if he continues to worry like this, but he doesn’t find it in him to tease. “I think you have more than enough coats and scarves to last for the winter. Hell, even for a lifetime…” Morgana looks up at the coats, sniffs twice, and sneezes. “Any scarf you can spare me?”
Akira rolls his eyes, but crouches to pull his drawer open. He helps Morgana wear his designated scarf—a blue one with the same shade as his eyes, with stars in varying shades and hues of blue—and ruffles his head hard enough that Morgana yowls at him. He remembers when he, Ann, and Ryuji, all aboard a train, took turns in petting Morgana’s head as fast as they could. Time was barely an issue back then, their genuine laughter was what matters. He’d be lying if he said he isn’t excited to see them all again.
“Ah, that’s better,” Morgana purrs, walking in a circle. Akira smiles, pushing his glasses up as he slowly stands again, until Morgana looks him in the eye. “But I mean it, Akira. No more coats. Especially when—"
Morgana turns his head towards the farthest side of Akira’s closet. Akira follows where he’s looking, as if he doesn’t know where Morgana is looking. As if he doesn’t understand what Morgana wants to say.
There, in the farthest right, sits a yellow coat and a striped red and green scarf. A similar outfit Akechi used to wear when they—him, Yoshizawa, and Akechi—went toe-to-toe with Maruki while bringing their friends back to reality. It would be an exact copy, if only the coat was as light as the original and if the stripes on the scarf were more symmetrical. The colors are dull in comparison to Akechi’s.
Akira’s grief is hanging in the farthest right side of his closet. Not once has he reached out for it nor has examined it any closer.
“Joker.” Morgana’s firm call has him snapping his head back to him. It’s a name Morgana has never called him, not even once, the moment they arrived. It’s a name so distant and yet so familiar. If Morgana was angry, or if his voice was scratchier and sharper, maybe Akira would have mistaken it for Akechi.
A small voice at the back of his head tells him he can never mistake anybody’s voice as Akechi’s. Akira doesn’t dwell on it the same way he has never reached out for the familiar coat and scarf.
“Akira,” Morgana calls him again, a little quieter and softer this time, before jumping out of his closet and nuzzling his face on his legs. “Let go of the coat before the sleeve gets ripped off.”
Akira doesn’t remember clutching the sleeve of his navy blue coat again. He lets go and takes a few steps back as if it burns. The heaviness sitting in his chest has been here again, for a few weeks now—ever since December started, but nobody asked him about it—even when he was doing well with managing its weight on him. On good days, Akira barely feels it. Sometimes, it grounds him; It’s a reminder that he’s real, and that he’s survived, and his friends are living in the real world. He’s halfway through being seventeen, and the world is not on the verge of collapse. On bad days, he feels as if he’s paper, being crushed under the weight of whatever is stopping him from flying away and moving on. On bad nights, Yaldabaoth and Maruki are there, tangible and heavy.
On terrible, horrible nights, Akechi is there. Akira finally knows how he smells again, a soft and fragrant flowery scent that is too sweet in comparison to the frown that’s almost always on his face.
Akira is seventeen, the world continues to turn, and Akechi is supposed to age with them, too.
“Hey, you…” Morgana sits on Akira’s feet, pawing on his pajamas. “Hey, Akira.”
“I’m here.” Akira says, when he turns his head down to look at Morgana. There’s a shake in his voice that Morgana for sure has heard. A faint breeze caresses Akira’s nape—right below where his haircut ends—and he shivers in the slightest. He holds eye contact with him for a few seconds, before shaking his head. “I’m getting hot chocolate.”
Morgana regards him one last time—his face is nearly buried in his scarf, and Akira huffs a laugh at how ridiculous he looks—before he gets off of Akira. “I want a treat, too.”
“Alright, Prince Morgana.” Akira rolls his eyes. He doesn’t tell Morgana that his hands in his pockets are balled into fists when they head down to the kitchen. He doesn’t tell his parents that he doesn’t cut down his coffee intake, either, proceeding to grab the jar of coffee beans from the cupboard even when the hot chocolate is closer to him.
Akira has long given up on making heads or tails with how he’s supposed to feel as he eats meals with his parents. They’ve done a better job recently at being parents, ever since Akira’s probation ended and he’s returned with Morgana. He’s not paying attention to anything, however, even if their table is filled with food Akira doesn’t eat on a day-to-day basis. There’s a low ringing noise in his ear and he’s given up on finding out what’s causing it as well. Mom and Dad are engaged in business talk and all Akira can think about is how long this day seems to run. He’s barely in the present, letting his muscle memory feed himself and chew his dinner. If it weren’t for the constant scraping of utensils against the plate, he would have long spaced out by now.
Mom yanks his awareness back to the dining table by handing him a slice of cake. “Your phone keeps lighting up.”
Akira takes the cake while sparing a glance at his phone. His group chat with his friends from school has been inactive for twenty four minutes now, but Ryuji and Futaba seem to be arguing over the pit stops for their hypothetical road trip this Christmas break. They’ve been at it for multiple nights now, and Akira knows better than to intervene. He bows and simply tells her, “My friends from Tokyo are just discussing something.”
Mom raises an eyebrow at that, but doesn’t probe anymore. Seems they need to work on being curious over their only son’s interests more, but Akira can’t find it in him to care. Not now. Last year, Akechi was alive—at least, that’s the most appropriate term to use. Akira remembers him walking up to him and Sae, saying he’ll confess all of his crimes at the police station. There’s a twinge in Akira’s chest that’s not so different from what he felt on that night. When Akechi’s back is facing him, Akira does nothing to stop him.
Akira does nothing with the weight in his chest now as well.
The chocolate cake melts in his mouth immediately. It’s heavy, but not heavy enough to drown anything else going on with Akira tonight. He briefly thinks of the coffees he used to make back at Leblanc and how he misses the balanced taste of bittersweet on his tongue.
Akira still remembers Akechi’s order by heart. He’s sure that it’s impossible to forget it.
Before he can fully space out, Morgana meows by his feet, clearly enjoying the holidays when his food bowl is filled with everything he could ever ask for. He’s wearing the knitted red scarf Fukuhara gave Akira when they were exchanging Christmas gifts before winter break started. She’s been fond of Morgana ever since they found out Akira owned a cat, and they’ve been not-so-subtly trying to convince Akira to invite them to his home. In a way, they remind him of his friends back in Tokyo, and the comparison makes him break into a small smile.
Speaking of Tokyo, “I need to go. Need to catch the last train already.”
His parents do nothing but follow him when he pushes his chair back and stands up. Morgana meows in protest, his face half buried in his bowl. Akira crouches to wipe off the tuna smeared on his nose, before looking up to Mom. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.” His parents say at the same time, which nearly makes him jump. Once Akira stands up with Morgana in his arms, his dad raises an eyebrow at him. “Surely you don’t need a ride on the way to the train station?”
They need to work on that part of parenting as well. Akira breathes in and shakes his head, licking what’s left of the chocolate cake on the roof of his mouth. “No need. Thank you.”
“Don’t do anything that will land you on probation again.” And there it is, the usual bluntness and snark. Akira shakes his head again before bowing, and he dashes upstairs to grab his bag.
Once at the train station, Akira tightens the scarf around his neck. It’s as lively as anywhere else in Japan tonight. There are people of different ages, friends, families, and lovers alike. Here, in this train station, exists hundreds of lives that Akira isn’t privy to. Here is concrete proof that the world turns and turns and turns.
When he gets on the train, Morgana finally wakes up, popping his head out of Akira’s bag. Akira rubs his head, fast and hard until Morgana meows at him and swats his hand away. There’s a smile on Akira’s lips that he knows is getting wider the closer they are to Tokyo.
The distance in between Akira and his friends for around nine months did not put a distance in between their friendship at all. If anything, Ryuji’s sidehugs are tighter, Futaba and Yusuke sit and stand closer to him when they can, and Ann and Haru make sure to include him in their conversations—even ones that he has little to no knowledge of. Ann seems to have taken up knitting as a recent hobby. This, Akira knows bits and pieces of. He echoes whatever he’s learned from Fukuhara and he does it so well that they’re nearly convinced he already has a girlfriend back home. Even Makoto chimes in, her red eyes brighter than how Akira usually sees them during their video calls. Sojiro briefly joins, bringing everyone their preferred drinks, and Akira doesn’t tell him what his parents offhandedly say about him. He’s a great and righteous man, and his parents have the habit of talking anything about anyone. It’s probably what a vast, lonely house does to adults with nothing better to do with their lives, but he digresses. Everybody still dogs—ha, ha—on Morgana whenever they can, even when he’s bundled up so cutely in his red scarf, but if them taking turns in petting him were to say anything, it’s evident that they care for him as much as they care for each other.
After the feast, Akira is a walking furnace. In Leblanc, this shop that holds more memories than people, he is home. Laughter wafts in the air, mixing with the familiar scent of coffee. The year he has spent here is a year he holds close to his heart, and he’ll forever will.
The gift exchange goes smoother than Akira ever expected. Everybody is terrified of receiving Ryuji’s big box of a gift that looks like it weighs a ton, but when Haru unboxes it, there’s a dainty tea set decorated with light pink flowers and bows. “I wanted to scare y’all a little bit,” Ryuji scratches his nape with the biggest grin on his face. “Was gonna wrap it in a way that’s not obvious, but I’d rather not accidentally break it on the way here.”
“This is cute!” Haru smiles at him as she hugs the set close to her chest. “Merry Christmas, Ryuji.”
Ryuji’s face is as red as the bow he used in wrapping Haru’s gift. “Merry Christmas. Please don’t ask me about the price, it’s cheap compared to your usual.”
Everybody laughs, while it’s Haru’s turn to blush. “I love it, really. Thank you.” She turns to where Futaba is unwrapping her fiftieth chocolate of the night, and extends her gift towards her general direction. When Akira passes it to Futaba, he’s surprised at how heavy it is compared to how it looks. “Merry Christmas, Futaba.”
Futaba gasps and doesn’t waste any more time grabbing the scissors nearby. Realization dawns on Futaba even when the gift isn’t fully unwrapped yet, and she gasps again, albeit louder this time. Significantly louder. “You got me all the versions?”
“Well, I didn’t know which would be the more appropriate version, so I…” Haru twirls a few strands of her hair, biting her bottom lip. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Okay?” Futaba gets up and does a little dance, clutching what seems to be three versions of a newly released game close to her chest. Akira doesn’t even try to remember the name. It’s nearly impossible to believe that she was once the girl who refused to take off her mask and get out of her room, but Akira would take this version of her any day. “This is literally the best Christmas present anybody can ever give me!”
“I’ll tell Sojiro you don’t appreciate his earmuffs,” Akira chides in.
“He’ll understand,” Futaba waves him off before sitting back down beside him. She leans back on her chair and sighs. “Ah, the perks of having a rich friend in a friend group…”
Everybody laughs again. Haru’s cheeks are as pink as they can get.
“Well!” Futaba claps her hands as loud as she can. She shuffles in her seat to grab the gift below her chair and hands it to Yusuke right across from her. “Merry Christmas, Inari.”
Yusuke huffs. “No wonder you’ve been more of an annoyance to me recently. You derive pleasure out of my inconvenience.” He receives the gift with both hands and bows in gratitude despite his words. There’s a gleam in his eyes when he sees a new sketchpad and matching color pencils—Akira recognizes the brand, it’s a little on the pricier side—and a scarf that brings out the color of his eyes. “Many thanks, Futaba.”
“I’ve had enough of your colorful scarves,” Futaba says as she throws a new chocolate candy in her mouth. “So, have at least a dull one in your closet, okay?”
“Humbly asking you to not be a disgrace to art and life on this Christmas, please.” Yusuke rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile on his lips when he does. “I’ll have this on my person every time we meet until you grow sick and tired of it.”
“Hit me with it.” Futaba points an empty candy wrapper at him like it’s a weapon.
“Okay, before anybody commits murder under Leblanc’s roof and Sojiro nags us to wipe the blood off the floor,” Makoto holds up her two hands while the rest of them snort and giggle. “Who did you get, Yusuke?”
Yusuke sets down the gifts he’s received and turns to Ryuji with the actual heaviest gift any of them have, if Ryuji’s sudden Whoa! when he took it from Yusuke’s hands were to say anything. “What the hell is in this box, man?”
“Well, it’s not exactly a gift for you…” Yusuke trails off as Ryuji slowly unwraps the gift. When all of them realize that there’s a sewing machine on Ryuji’s lap, they all gasp. “But, I remember that you once mentioned that your mother was trying to take up sewing, and I just so happened to have extra when I calculated my finances for the month—Ough!”
“Dude!” Ryuji yells at Yusuke’s ear when he gives him the tightest sidehug. “I can’t thank you enough, actually. Even until I die, I’ll still be thankful to you! Man!”
Ann coos, her manicured fingers intertwined by her chest. “I’ll ask you how much that is later, Yusuke. Shiho has been thinking of getting better at sewing, too.”
“You’re in luck, then.” Makoto speaks up beside her, handing her a gift bag. “I bought yarns and a sewing kit for you. There’s also lotion there that Sae got during their Christmas party raffle, which she thinks suits you more. Merry Christmas, Ann.”
Ann hugs her as tight as she can—most likely got the habit from Ryuji—before she turns to Akira. With the widest smile on her face, she hands him his gift. “It might not be much, but a little birdie once told me that you keep forgetting to replace your broken table lamp back at home…”
Akira can only smile as he opens the bag. There’s a table lamp and a—”I also got you a night light. Hopefully… It helps you sleep well.”
Akira looks up to all of them looking at him with varying smiles on their faces. The warmth at the pit of his stomach makes its presence known again. He mirrors their smiles as he hugs his gift bag tight. “Thank you. Merry Christmas.”
After Ann greets him a Merry Christmas again, Akira turns to Makoto. “Sorry for the lack of suspense,” he snorts, and Makoto rolls her eyes when he receives her gift. “Merry Christmas.”
“You actually got me the planner…” Makoto is in disbelief. Akira shrugs, but he looks smug enough that Makoto rolls her eyes at him again. She's been growing a spine recently, which is another Christmas gift Akira wants for her. “Thank you. Merry Christmas. And for you, Morgana…”
Behind his back, they all got him a new food bowl and a bag of cat treats. Morgana tries his best not to tear up at the sentiment until Ryuji points out how constipated he looks, which resulted in a catfight that Yusuke and Ann had to stop. It all ends in laughter, nevertheless, and Akira can’t think of a place he’d rather be than here.
They go back to catching up with each other—they actually talk about the time Futaba flunked a quiz, multiple quizzes, even—and the air is bright and lively. Akira starts to mellow down, the signs of a food coma starting to take over his system, so he lets the rest of them talk. They don't mention him, but Akira can live with that. For now. His eyes start to grow heavy when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket.
Yoshizawa’s message is short: I’m outside, Senpai.
Akira excuses himself from Morgana, comfortable on his lap, and the rest of them. They tell him to wish Yoshizawa a Merry Christmas, and how it’s a shame that she couldn’t join their celebration and stay over for their sleepover.
“I’ll tell her about the road trip,” Akira acquiesces, waving his phone at them on the way to Leblanc’s entrance. “If it’s even going to happen.”
“Hey!” Ryuji calls out after him when he opens the door. “It is going to happen!”
Yoshizawa’s hair is darker, but she glows all the same as snow starts to fall.
“Senpai!” She calls out the moment she sees Akira, a sweet smile on her face. Akira can’t make heads or tails if she’s put on blush or if it’s because of the weather. She tightens her grip on her bicycle handles before greeting, “Merry Christmas.”
Akira nods at her with a smile of his own. “Merry Christmas,” he greets back before gesturing towards the road.
They start walking in silence, comfortable in letting the neighborhood’s distant chatter and various Christmas music talk on their behalf. There’s a faint jingle from time to time coming from Yoshizawa’s bicycle, and Akira is too busy trying to catch snow to initiate a conversation.
After taking a left turn, Yoshizawa finally says, “Your coat looks good on you.”
Akira did end up wearing his navy blue coat and light blue scarf for today. He huffs—there’s a visible puff of air by his mouth when he does—and nods at her. “You’re starting to wear your hair up in a ponytail again.”
Yoshizawa clears her throat. Even if Akira doesn’t look at her, he knows the blush on her face is more obvious. “It suits the earmuffs Father gave me for this season. It’s not like I…”
They take a right turn, and Akira doesn’t need her to continue her sentence to understand what she wanted to say.
“Listen, Senpai, I know we said no gifts because we’re going to the temple on New Year’s, but—” Akira turns his head to where she pulls out a small, square gift from her red coat pocket. “I just—I think… you should have this.”
They stop by a corner as Akira tears the wrapper open. It’s a bifold black wallet, and before Akira can thank Yoshizawa, she gestures vaguely at it. “Open it, please.”
He opens the wallet and not once has Akira thought he will see whatever he just saw. If he were any less weak of a man, his knees would have buckled then and there.
There’s a slightly blurred picture of his’ and Akechi’s backs, taken by Yoshizawa most likely during their investigations. Akechi is here, alive and breathing and talking—most likely throwing sarcasm at him here—and Akira finally admits to himself the gravity of how much he misses him. He inhales, a heavy breath that he doesn’t even try to hide from Yoshizawa, and when Yoshizawa doesn’t try to say anything just yet, he exhales it as slowly as he can.
Here, in his wallet, Akechi is alive. He’s barely seventeen again, and his rival, his friend, who holds space in his chest that’s bigger than he’ll ever tell anyone, is alive.
Not even a thousand table lamps can replace this black wallet. Akira’s heart aches, and aches, and aches, until he remembers that he needs to thank Yoshizawa. His voice is weak when he finally does, and Yoshizawa only shakes her head. “I was… having my doubts, whether I should give this to you or not, but I—I think, I owe you this much. It would weigh on my conscience daily if I didn’t give you this.”
“Thank you.” Akira’s voice is still weak. He doesn’t know if he can thank Yoshizawa louder anytime soon. He doesn’t know when he’ll recover from this, or if he’s ever going to recover from Akechi’s death.
Yoshizawa shakes her head again. Her grip on her bicycle handles is a bit tighter, mirroring how hard Akira is gripping the wallet in his hands. “I know I’m not… the best person to go to when it comes to the death of a loved one.” She looks away, eyes as distant as how Akira’s are sometimes. She pushes her glasses back up with one hand before continuing. “But if it helps, Akechi-san was once alive, and we—you really spent enough time with each other for it to hurt. For it to be heavy,” Yoshizawa looks back at him when she taps her chest with her palm. “Here.”
“The time we—the three of us—spent together wasn’t exactly long, but they’re memories I think of from time to time, anyway, even if most of those times weren’t exactly… pleasant.” Yoshizawa huffs. “So, I can only imagine how hard it is for you… Senpai, you need to take care of your eyebags more.”
The sudden jump of the conversation has both Akira and Yoshizawa startled. They blink at each other before Akira huffs a few, gentle laughs and Yoshizawa starts bowing profusely. “I meant to say—I wanted to say you need to take care of yourself more, but I—”
“No, I,” Akira snorts, shaking his head with a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I understand. Thank you, Yoshizawa.” He looks at her, his smile now a little wider. “This is a gift I’ll treasure for the rest of my life.”
“Ah… that’s,” Yoshizawa fans her blushing face with one hand. “That’s really good to hear.” She says thanks even when Akira hasn’t said or done anything for her—yet. Akira sees a bakery with a few cakes left on their display nearby, so he gestures for Yoshizawa to start walking with him again.
“Senpai, but you said no gifts…” Yoshizawa huffs, but she points at the slice of a custard cake anyway.
“After you gave me one?” Akira raises an eyebrow at her, and she blushes again as she waves him off. “We’ll still be seeing each other during New Year’s, alright?”
“Yes!” Yoshizawa says before accepting the cake box from the cashier. “Will Futaba and the others come with…?”
Akira nods. Speaking of, “Are you available before New Year’s eve, though? They want to go on a hypothetical road trip…” Akira shakes his head as Yoshizawa carefully puts her cake in her bicycle basket. “Hypothetical, because we don’t actually know if it will happen.”
Yoshizawa hums. “Since it’s after Christmas… I’ll see what I can do with my dad.” She smiles, and Akira smiles back. The weight in his chest is a little lighter. Yoshizawa is the closest person he has to remembering the most recent version of Akechi. It’s equally reassuring and haunting.
Akira tells her about their plans so far for their hypothetical road trip as he walks her to where she’ll start to cycle on her way home. The red of Yoshizawa’s hair is not the same as the red of Akechi’s eyes, but Akira finds comfort in it all the same.
Akira’s day actually starts when he’s finally at the train station where they will all meet.
He’s slowly starting to gain awareness of his current disposition and the environment around him when he yawns, a cup of coffee in his hand. Futaba’s eyes are closed while she’s leaning against the pillar. Akira won’t put it past her to fall asleep while she’s standing. Ann says she’s on her way with Ryuji and Shiho, Yusuke texted their group chat seventeen minutes ago that he’s still looking for his pair of lucky socks, Makoto and Haru are on their way to the shrine together, and Yoshizawa will be going with her dad.
New Year’s day arrives with little to no hassle for Akira.
The hypothetical road trip actually happened, for two days and one night, following Makoto’s itinerary in the end. Yoshizawa and Shiho end up tagging along, to which everybody immediately warmed up to. For two days and one night, Akira allows himself to not dwell on Akechi too much. He carries Yoshizawa’s wallet with him at all times, however, to which Ryuji and Futaba joke that he might be carrying a black card in there somewhere.
He doesn’t tell them that the picture inside is far more valuable to him.
Akira has already responded to everybody’s sentimental messages and hopeful greetings for the new year last night. Yamamoto tells them that they should meet before school starts again, to which they all agree to as long as he provides them his house. There’s not a lot of people at the train station as of the moment but it’s nowhere near desolate either.
Ann, Shiho, and Ryuji arrive shortly, with Ryuji yawning without covering his mouth and Ann handing her chapstick to Shiho. “Nothing good about my morning, man,” Ryuji huffs when they finally convene.
Ann immediately smacks his arm. “Can you not start your new year with negativity? We might catch it!”
Shiho just waves at them after she gives Ann her chapstick back. “Been a while, Kurusu-san.”
Akira nods, sipping what is left of his coffee. Futaba starts to open her eyes when Ann and Ryuji’s bickering gets louder. “Well, good morning to you guys, too…”
The train announcement follows shortly. When Akira takes one good look at his reflection on the train mirror, he sees a ghost of Akechi staring back at him. He’s wearing the closest thing to Akechi’s yellow coat and striped red and green scarf that he owns, and his hands stay warm in his coat pockets. It doesn’t look as good on him as it does on Akechi. If any of his friends realize the similarities between their outfits, they don’t say anything about it.
Yusuke arrives just in time as the train doors open, complaining about one pair of his lucky socks being thrown under his drawer by the time they get in. Akira throws his empty coffee cup before he boards and doesn’t look back to check when it gets in the trash can.
When the train signals its departure, Akira looks out of the window. It’s not the same train that he rode when he left Tokyo, and there are things that have changed for him and in his life, but he thinks of Akechi in vague memories and several faint scents all the same. Today, he will try not to curl his fists hard enough that it leaves indents on his palms. He’s seventeen, and the world is still turning. There is still no worldwide threat that is equal to the complete annihilation of humanity; The world did not stop earlier this year and it will not stop anytime soon.
He finally feels his age after a while, despite the constant weight in his chest and on his person.