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Goro likely, conclusion drawn from previous experience, had five hours before he began hallucinating. Currently, each step down the alleys of Yongen-Jaya required immense amounts of both focus and effort to avoid tripping over his own feet and eating shit on the concrete. His eyesight was a fuzzy black at the edges, the world too-fast blurs he had no hope of processing. The dull, angry pulse of bruised ribs was proof enough to how pitiful his reaction time was in and out of the Metaverse.
He was beyond the point caffeine would help, lamentable when he was soon to step through the doorway of Leblanc.
Goro had known, on paper, that this plan to play pretend at being a Phantom Thief and steal Sae's heart would add exponential weight to his already-heavy workload. Knowing the severity of it didn't make experiencing it any better, however.
He wasn't entirely sure when he last slept. Definitely over 48 hours ago. There simply wasn't time. Not with everything else he needed to balance.
He needed to maintain top marks in school and complete hours of essays and homework promptly, even with the extensions his instructors gave the Detective Prince. He needed to study for exams.
He needed to solve crimes, his own or otherwise. Needed to fabricate evidence to cover his tracks. Needed to find evidence for actual crime-solving. Needed to finish hours of paperwork, then allow himself to be carted off for TV or social media appearances. Needed to smile the sweet Detective Prince smile until it ached, and past that still.
He needed to traipse around the Metaverse as the intuitive Crow and murderous Black Mask. Needed to join the Phantom Thieves in Sae's palace most evenings, anytime they called. He needed to prove himself, even as he fought with one hand tied behind his back.
(Akira Joker placed him on the frontline each infiltration. Goro preened at being chosen—relied on—so heavily. He knew he was leagues above Joker's sycophantic friends, and Joker knew it, too. Every time steel eyes fixed on him, the leader of the Phantom Thieves' deep voice commanding, "Crow, finish them!" Goro would feel—
Well, he'd do as tasked.)
He needed to fire off Robin Hood's spells and suppress Loki. Every time he summoned his Persona in the Casino, Goro needed to focus—make sure he was calling upon the right one, maintain the Detective Prince's smile and empty, affable words, and not get lost in the battle frenzy and scream for Loki to decimate everything standing in his path.
It was exhausting. (He was exhausted.)
How Joker managed the rotating menagerie he called upon, he wasn't sure. Did he ever summon one he didn't mean to? Find Queen Mab behind him when he wanted Power? If he did, that ever-collected mask and insolent smirk of his hid the fact.
For the last two nights, the Phantom Thieves walked out of the Metaverse, and Goro needed to jump on a train heading for Shibuya instead of home, long-deleted texts with a list of names burnt into his mind. He entered Mementos, adorned in black armor, and slaughtered his way through the tunnels until he found his targets and brought them to ruin. And after, Goro dragged his feet back to his apartment.
The cherry on top, really, was there were a couple hours before the new day began, where he had the chance to sleep, but his mind and body wouldn't shut the fuck up, and Goro would lay restless and irritated until dawn broke—if he didn't get up to do something with his time instead. And, if he did manage to catch sleep's wings and go under, he woke cold and panting from a night terror he couldn't even remember. Only the memory of bloodied, accusing grey eyes staring back at him.
Goro paused just as Leblanc came into view, pinching the bridge of his nose. Akira Kurusu asked him if he'd like to meet today, and Goro said yes without much thought. Now, the limited free time Goro had to either attempt sleep or get ahead on one of his many responsibilities was to be taken by a meaningless meeting with the boy he'd shoot in the head later this month.
He should have texted Kurusu that something came up and he couldn't make it. He should have just not come and claim that he fell asleep. Kurusu would believe it. He would probably even huff that little laugh of his and say he was glad Goro caught up on sleep.
(Because he always noticed, didn't he? He noticed and he—cared—whenever Goro wasn't in top form. And Goro couldn't quite convince himself Kurusu did it for any other reason than he truly wanted him to be okay.
A laughable concept, but one that still did something awful and violent to his heart whenever he allowed himself to think about it.)
Goro didn't do any of the things he should have.
He must be a masochist, because here he was, wanting to be here for all the worthless sentiment that was.
The familiar chime of Leblanc's bell greeted him as he stepped inside, followed by warmth and the rich aroma of coffee.
"Akechi," Kurusu greeted, behind the counter and immediately starting to brew coffee.
"Kurusu," Goro lilted back, sliding into his usual seat and decidedly not protesting the coffee. It wouldn't help the exhaustion tearing at his heels, but he could still savor the taste.
"After your customary coffee," Kurusu started, amusement in his tone, "I thought we could go upstairs and talk about the book you recommended—the Prose Edda?"
Goro perked up. "You finished it?"
Kurusu nodded, gently setting a steaming cup of coffee in front of Goro. "Yeah, it's not something I thought you would recommend." There was a question laced in the statement, though he moved on before Goro could kick his brain into gear to answer. "But I'm glad you did. Before we get into it, I just need to finish working on something at my desk—if you don't mind waiting for me."
Goro sipped at his coffee, pretending the warmth in his chest was solely from the hot drink. When he awoke to Loki, he researched all things Norse mythology, just as he'd done for the Robin Hood myth. He wanted to know everything he could about these beings that were the manifestation of his truest self. Asking Kurusu to read the Prose Edda had been… a selfish request. A desire for Kurusu to understand him without revealing his hand. Plenty of myths didn't have Loki within them, but the ones that did…
"Mythology has long enamored me," Goro said, a half-true sheepish smile on his face. "I suppose you could say it's my choice for recreational reading. I look forward to hearing your thoughts on it." He shifted his tone into a careful cross of miffed and teasing. "After you finish your very important project, of course."
Kurusu's eyes squinted and his smile flashed like Joker's. "I won't keep you waiting long, honey."
Goro hid a snort behind his coffee, more amused than he might have been with the world fuzzy at the edges.
Kurusu tutted about cleaning the counters and equipment while Goro worked on his coffee. Each minute spent in the quiet cafe leeched tension from his shoulders, and his eyelids grew heavy. He started slumping sideways, and Goro quickly propped his elbow on the table, chin in his palm.
Sakura returned to the cafe with groceries on one arm, disappearing into the kitchen nook after a quick, gruff greeting.
After an, admittedly, poor attempt at stifling a yawn, Goro caught Kurusu watching him, grey eyes sharp and piercing behind the facade of his glasses. Clearing his throat, Goro said, "I'm quite finished, if you'd like to head up?"
Kurusu remained quiet for a long moment. Just, watching. This was one of Kurusu's traits Goro hated the most. Grey eyes that stabbed into him, like they could see everything, and didn't look away. It was disconcerting—left him wanting to shift on the spot, scrambling to see if there were cracks in his mask. This was what Kurusu would do, mercury eyes a gravitational force trapping him in orbit, and Goro would inevitably ramble on and on about things he'd never said to anyone. Things he intended to take to the damn grave. He still wanted to crack his head against the wall remembering just how much he'd said in the bathhouse.
The weight of Kurusu's gaze was like nothing he's ever experienced before. Kurusu looked at him like that, and Goro felt horribly, wonderfully seen. He wanted to crawl out of his skin. He wanted to grab Kurusu's head in a too-harsh grip and never let him look away.
"Yeah, let's go," Kurusu agreed, keeping whatever the hell he'd been thinking as he bore a hole through Goro's chest to himself.
Goro was struck with the sudden, stifled, impulse to strangle him.
Kurusu tugged off his apron and hung it up with practiced ease, heading upstairs after a quick word with Sakura. Goro followed at his heels.
"Make yourself comfortable, this shouldn't take long." Kurusu motioned towards the room at large before sitting at his little desk in the corner and pulling out his phone.
Goro eyed his seating options. The retired booth bench Kurusu called a couch looked particularly miserable today. The mattress on milk crates wasn't much better, but there was a new pile of pillows on it that, judging by the heart-shaped ones with messages like 'slay' or 'beauty queen' in the mix, were a gift from Takamaki.
He headed for the bed.
Soft jazz music, playing from Kurusu's phone, filled the room as Goro settled into the nest of pillows with a Greek Mythos book, back propped against the wall.
Whatever wakefulness Goro achieved from walking up here and the irritation at being ignored by his rival abandoned him quickly. The pillows were soft and warm around him, the slow swing of jazz music curling through the air. The words on the page in front of him swam, inky splotches instead of letters. His eyes continually slipped shut against his will.
Kurusu began singing along with the music, and Goro could only be annoyed at how in tune and nice his voice was. He forced his brain to process another paragraph weaving a story of Nyx's twins, Thanatos and Hypnos, before crossly turning the page. Those letters swam, too.
His eyelids fluttered and his mind wandered, despite his best efforts.
Goro struggled to sleep in general, but he never, never fell asleep around other people. The orphanage and foster homes taught him to never sleep unless behind securely locked doors, and then to only sleep lightly. To be that vulnerable to another person was an invitation to be hurt or stolen from or—
The last and only person safe to sleep near was his mother, and that was a lifetime ago. Even alone, in his apartment with its thrice-locked doors and windows and gun under his pillow, Goro rarely slept peacefully, snapping awake from nightmares or to the slightest of sounds outside.
Sleep was an awful, vulnerable necessity he entertained only enough to function. Meager as his sleep schedule was, careful application of concealer kept anyone from catching on and, eventually, his body grew accustomed to its lack.
Rarely, if he pushed too hard (a fate he was careening towards now) his body crashed on him. He knew the warning signs, the pattern. Two to three days without sleep, his vision started blacking out at the edges like a vignette. Six to ten hours later, he began to hallucinate. The moment that started, he knew to drop everything and get home. One hour after the hallucinations began, his body simply gave out. He'd pass out in his thrice-locked apartment, blessedly dreamless, and wake up to inevitably start the cycle again.
It worked. It was safe (enough).
He never fell asleep around other people. Especially not in a cafe attic that didn't even have a door, let alone a lock, with the boy he was to kill his rival singing just feet away. People weren't safe. Kurusu wasn't, couldn't be, an exception.
Goro's book fell from his hands into his lap. He barely noticed, lashes fluttering shut with the determination to stay that way. He tilted sideways, head far too heavy to hold up a second longer. His descent slowed by pillows until he was flat against the bed, the world fell away.
The world returned in gentle waves rolling over him, urging him back down into the downy feathers of sleep.
Jazz continued to curl through the air, quiet humming lilting along with the brass like a dance.
Fingers stroked through his hair, nails light along his scalp. Matching the sway of the music, they started above his forehead, ran smooth to his nape, and ghosted back up to begin again. Their touch left stars in their wake, dancing across his nerves and behind his eyes.
Soft warmth cocooned him: fluffy pillows at his back, the drape of a blanket over his shoulders, the heat of another person in front of him.
His body felt so, so heavy, so comfortable, and sleep—wasn't he just reading about Sleep? What was it, Hypnos?—Hypnos beckoned him back down with gentle hands. He could follow so easily, sink back into the most peaceful sleep he's had in years—since the last time his mother soothed him, tucked in the bend of her body. He was safe here. He could rest at ease and trust he'd wake unharmed. He could expose his soft underbelly and not just walk away unscathed, but be protected in his vulnerability.
But something was wrong with this, wasn't there? Goro wracked his brain, thoughts moving through molasses, as he tried to figure it out. Each stroke down the crown of his head stole the elusive thoughts away, each lilting hum a lullaby to send him back into sleep's arms.
With herculean, stubborn effort, Goro pried his eyes open, the world rushing back in like a tidal wave. His ability to think, process, followed, and—
He was laying in Kurusu's bed. Kurusu was right next to him—so close, so terribly close—leaning against the wall on his phone. Kurusu's free hand was buried in Goro's hair, carding through the strands.
(Goro should hate the touch. Touch was never anything good.)
(God, it felt so good.)
Voice rough and hoarse, Goro asked, "What are you doing?"
Kurusu's hand froze, the slightest jump jolting through his body. Goro felt it only because of how close they were. "I was just—I can stop." Kurusu started to move his hand away and a small, mortifying whine spilled from Goro's throat before he could swallow it.
Kurusu's hand froze, again, before slowly continuing to card through Goro's hair. Goro pinched his eyes shut, hard, and willed away the burning in his face. His brain was too sleep-laden—there was no world where he should allow this.
No one had touched him gently in so long.
"You better not tell anyone about this," Goro grumbled, shooting a glare up at Kurusu's face. His whole body buzzed and shivered with the sweet touch along his scalp.
He wasn't wearing his glasses. His eyes were gentle like drifting clouds in the dim light, framed by the messy ink of his hair. He looked beautiful, soft—
"Akechi." Kurusu met his eye. "I'd rather eat a cup of Mona's fur than let anyone else see this Akechi Goro." His fingers tightened minutely in his hair, a hold firm and just this side of possessive, before continuing to comb through to his nape.
Goro shuddered, knew Kurusu felt it by the twitch of his fingers.
Warmth unfurled through his chest, ivy twisting around his ribs. Kurusu wanted…
"Do you do this with any of your other friends?" Goro asked, razors on his tongue. The silly heart-shaped pillows turned to stones at his back. Did Takamaki bring them here so she was more comfortable while Kurusu doted on her? Ran slender fingers through her hair, getting caught in the blonde curls? Did Takamaki laugh and curl up against him, manicured hands in Kurusu's hair as she—
Kurusu snorted and shook his head. "Of course not. Unless you're counting petting Morgana, when he allows it."
Goro deflated, pillows soft at his back. Every question he asked, attempting to rouse his anger and hatred to burn away the fluffy softness Kurusu cottoned him with, Kurusu countered with the painfully perfect answer to keep him warm and sated.
How was he supposed to pull himself out of the lull like this?
(He wasn't. It was a losing battle. Akira was a losing battle.)
"I don't need to be taken care of."
"I know," Akira answered, perfect perfect perfect—
With a quiet, but heartfelt, groan, Goro pushed forward, his forehead knocking hard against Akira's hip. He could hear the crack of his hard-kept masks echo through his mind as he gave in to the howling want in his brain. He refused to move or look up. Just for now. Just for today. He'd put it all back tomorrow.
Just… let him have this one gentleness today. This one gentleness offered freely by a boy he trusted to keep him safe.
(How selfish to want the safety Akira gave, when he would offer Akira nothing but danger.)
Akira laughed, little and quiet. His nails scratched gently across the base of his skull, frissons of stars dancing in their wake.
They settled into silence.
Goro drifted, not quite sleeping, but floating on downy feathers. The rhythmic caress of Akira's fingers made thinking far too difficult to bother.
"Hey, Akechi?"
"Mm?" Akechi hummed, the best inquiry he could manage.
"You're always safe here, you know that, right?"
Here, not as in a dusty attic with no door—
"…This situation surely answers that, doesn't it?"
"Yeah, you're right."
—But here, next to Akira, in his hands.
"You can sleep a while longer, if you want. I can wake you before the last train," Akira promised.
Goro was too warm, comfortable, safe to argue. Once more, Goro fell asleep to the sound of Akira humming along to jazz music. This time, with the added weight of a hand drawing shooting stars across his skin and the warmth of his friend rival next to him.
Akira kept his word, rousing Goro with gentle calls of his name and firmer strokes through his hair. When Goro opened his eyes to Akira's face, still bare of glasses, so close to his, he wanted to—
He quickly sat up. Akira lurched back to avoid smashing their heads together. Goro gathered his things as fast as he could without tripping over himself, found his Greek Mythos book safely placed on the desk and shoved it in his briefcase. He could feel Akira looking at him again, piercing into his back.
Look away. Don't take your eyes off me. See me. Want me. Don't don't—
Goro turned, clothes smoothed down, briefcase in hand, to face Akira. "Thank you for…" He didn't know how to finish that without breaking himself to pieces in front of the one person he could never allow himself to. He didn't know how to mend the cracks he already made.
Akira smiled all gentle, as if he heard Goro fracturing like glass to reveal all the bloody softness beneath anyway. His eyes were so, unbearably soft. "Anytime, Akechi."
Goro nodded stiffly and—there was no word with more dignity to describe his actions—bolted.
Goro made it on the last train with fifteen minutes to spare and arrived home without rush. He thrice-locked the door, checked the thrice-locked windows, and mechanically got ready for bed.
He locked the bedroom door and checked the clip in the gun under his pillow. He settled into his own bed, the sheets cold and room silent. Safe enough.
But the traitorous part of his brain begged and longed for a quiet voice humming and slender fingers slipping through his hair in a room without a door. He wanted a beautiful boy with piercing grey eyes that saw too much to watch over him and keep him safe while he slept. He wanted that beautiful boy to smile at all the bloody pieces of him and stay anyway.
He wanted, he wanted, he wanted.
Goro didn't fall asleep the rest of the night, staring at the ceiling, trapped imagining everything he couldn't have.