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As Akira stands at the mouth of the alleyway, shoulders slouched in his jacket and lips quirked in his patented half-smirk above fake glasses and the missing ace from the deck of cards with Shido Masayoshi's keywords written on them given to Goro the day of their confrontation in the interrogation room in his left hand, what stands out most to Goro about his presumed-dead-rival is that he looks...good.
Not like-- well. Yes, like that, in part. A few years and no little maturing in his self-understanding later, Goro can freely admit that Akira's sly handsomeness and roguish charm worked their wiles on him excellently, and during their year in Tokyo, his rival featured in many-a heated fantasy he staunchly denied having. Akira is far from unattractive, and several things about him have always turned Goro's mind to fixate on and appreciate in the privacy of his own late nights.
Their time apart has been more than generous to Akira’s looks – there’s no denying that – but what stands out to Goro now is that he looks good. Physically well. Healthier. The discoloration under his eyes look like bags from exhaustion, not like partially-healed bruises from a fight; his thin body looks lithely built, not wireframe from neglect or starvation; his light skin is colored gently with red flush, not a pale sort of death-warmed-over monochrome that wouldn't be out of place in a cemetery. Goro draws a breath through his nose, detecting only the general smell of a busy day in the city, and he realizes Akira isn't cloaked in a faint cloud of cheap tobacco and secondhand smoke, either.
He‘s...changed. Improved. Refined.
Good.
Another beat passes, and Akira shifts on his feet, glasses flashing. "Seeing you speechless was funny at first, Detective, but now it's just getting creepy." The words are teasing and laced with that vague, perpetual air of lofty, cavalier confidence that Goro both despised and craved in equal measure. Akira brings a hand up to his face, making a gesture. "I didn't break something in that pretty head of yours, did--"
Goro can't help himself. He launches himself at the arrogant asshat and puts a fist square in the motherfucker's jaw.
Pain shoots through his hand -- it's been a long time since he's thrown a left hook -- but it's worth the satisfaction that comes with the wet crunch of leather-skin-flesh on skin-flesh-bone, doubly so when the deep laugh echoing through Akira's chest hits his ears.
"That’s more like it," Akira wheezes out with a glint in his eye. Pushed back a few steps from the punch, Akira grabs the wall of the alleyway for support with his left hand, carefully keeping the playing card away from it. As Goro shakes out his fist, his gaze is drawn to a thin trail of blood starting to drip from Akira's nose. “Nothing but warm welcomes from my rival."
"Plenty more where that came from," Goro responds without thinking, quoting one of their old exchanges, and that sends Akira into another bout of laughter.
"Wouldn’t doubt it for a second, Detective," Akira quips back. Bending over to grab his glasses off the floor and giving Goro a good view of his head, Akira's familiar black, curly locks look properly cared-for.
Not for the first time, Goro feels a pang of longing to touch run up his arms, working against the red streams of rage and indignation in his throat. He holds it back by a string of ever-thinning patience.
Goro waits for Akira to recover, eyeing him warily, rubbing at his left hand with his right. Eventually -- both far too soon and not soon enough -- Akira turns his attention back to him, swiping at his bloody nose with the hem of his dark trenchcoat.
"Why," his voice falters from the mix of emotions churning in his chest, and he clears his throat. "Why are you here?"
“Unfinished business.” With a flick of his wrist, the ace of spades appears from Akira's sleeve again, held up by two fingers like a calling card.
The missing ace from Goro's deck. Before he knows what he's doing, his hand is fishing around in his bag for the deck of cards Akira gave to him that November 18th. His gloved hand hits the ragged cardboard -- years of carrying the deck around have certainly taken their toll on the tuck case, but the cards themselves are no more worn in than the day Akira gave them to him -- and he grabs it, holding it in his palm.
“Didn’t think I’d leave you with an incomplete set, did you?”
Goro stares at the deck of cards -- "if he wrote the keywords for the mastermind behind the mental shutdowns on these cards...Goro, do you think he was asking us for help?" -- and another flare of anger burns through his self-restraint. "That's not what I mean and you know it. Why are you here now?"
"It's New Year's Day tomorrow," Akira notes with an unreadable smirk. "New year, new you, right? No better time to clean up loose ends."
"Akira," the word spits itself through his lips in a hiss, taking himself aback slightly. Goro takes a pause to fend off the red haze seeping into his mind. "Tell me."
Akira shrugs, the image of nonchalance. "I'm here now because I can be."
"Because. You can."
"That's what it comes down to, yeah."
Another bolt of emotion flashes through Goro's body, and before his mind can register Akira's words fully, his knuckles are in Akira's cheek for the second time in under five minutes.
Against the wall of the alleyway, there isn't anywhere for Akira to go backwards; he follows the force of the punch instead, rolling along the wall and recovering with a small, graceful twirl. With his hand already sore, Goro's aware his second punch wasn't quite as strong as his first one, and Akira catches his glasses mid-roll -- an impressive feat of dexterity Goro is in no mood to appreciate.
Akira lets out a short chuckle. Goro almost thinks he sees a dull light glimmer out in his eye. "You really are happy to see me, huh?"
"I'd be happier if you answered a question for once in your fucking life," he seethes, stalking towards Akira. "I did not wait three goddamn years for your conceited ass to show up out of nowhere--"
"Is there really any other way you can tell someone you're not dead?" Akira catches his gaze over his glasses and holds it, meeting him evenly. "If you can think of one, I'm all ears. Beats me."
As if walking into a telephone pole, Goro abruptly stops mid-stride, and so too does some of his anger as he contemplates the question.
A small flame of fondness flickers at the edges of his lips. Talking to Akira has always been a bit like navigating a yard filled with invisible rakes, and his ability to throw verbal smoke-bombs that bring conversations to a screeching halt is something Goro grew fond of over their time in Tokyo. If nothing else, they've always been good at stopping Goro in his tracks, which is -- he can admit now -- something he needs from time to time.
"...Point," he eventually concedes, unable to think of a gentler way for Akira to have announced his not-death, except perhaps with a less-atrocious joke.
The moment Goro relents, Akira's grey gaze lights up once more, and his tailed trenchcoat shifts as he straightens up. "It's ripping off the bandage, any way you look at it. Anything else would just be gaslighting, I think."
A noise escapes Goro's throat. "You've been smoking and gambling long before you were legal and you've let everyone believe you to be dead for three years, but gaslighting is too much for you."
"And murdering, don’t forget that. But we've all gotta draw a line in the sand for ourselves somewhere, don't we, Detective?" Akira asks with a lofty, knowing grin.
Goro forces his hand to loosen from its death grip around the pack of cards. "Your lines have always been hard to predict."
"They are what they need to be. Once they need to make sense to you, I'll let you know." A magnanimous little shrug, and god, Goro's missed this, the push and pull of their dialogues. No one else knows him quite as well as Akira does, and even among debate competitions and philosophy classes in college, he's yet to find someone as intriguing and enjoyable to talk to as Akira is. He never will, most likely.
As long as he has Akira, he doesn't want to.
But he doesn't have Akira. Akira is here in the flesh and blood, standing in front of him with a bloody nose and bruised cheek, but Goro has no idea when he'll deem fit to vanish like rain disappears over the horizon again. He wrenches himself back to the present moment. "You're still avoiding the question."
Akira brings out the card again. "I'm here because I have something of yours." He pauses, for a moment, smirk becoming unreadable. "Or you have something of mine. Either works."
“Which one is it?”
Akira looks at him. “I just said whichever one works, right? I’m asking you.”
“I asked you first.”
“No, I asked you first.”
“You declared flexibility in preference between two stated options. You didn’t ask me anything.”
“My declaration of flexible preference was an implied question.” He tilts his head. “You’re a hypocrite for judging my inability to answer questions when you don’t answer them either.”
Goro grins, feeling his shoulders relax at the return to familiar banter, baring his teeth just a little bit. “Takes one to know one.”
That damn smirk pops onto Akira's face, the one that covers Goro's vision in a red haze when it's at his expense. "Well, I guess you could say that great minds think alike, while Fools seldom differ--"
Another swing, but Goro manages to catch himself before his knuckles land in Akira's cheek. His fist stops a few scant inches away from Akira's unflinching face.
The moment hangs in the air like Goro's hand, awkward and primed with partially-released tension.
"...You're not dodging," he says, somewhat uncertain, in order to preemptively interrupt Akira's next attempt to derail their conversation. "I haven't been keeping up with my combat training; there's no way my punches are impossible for you to react to."
A beat. "They're not." Akira shrugs, making no move to distance himself from the fist, holding eye contact with him. Goro's gaze focuses unwillingly on the red stream of blood dripping from his nose. "Kinda sloppy, actually. But if I dodged, you'd just throw another punch, and then I'd have to dodge, and then you'd throw another punch, and then I'd dodge, and then we'd be getting nowhere."
Dammit, he's right, Goro curses internally, looking away with a scowl, scolding himself for his childish behavior. Akira knows him far too well.
"You're letting me punch you," he continues, ignoring the emotion swirling in his chest. "To get it out of my system."
"Yeah." Tone once more airy, but expression hidden; a feather hiding steel. "This doesn't have to take any longer than it needs to." A ruffle of fabric, and Goro's gaze is dragged away from Akira's face to watch him retrieve the ace of spades once again, a bit more sluggish, a bit less flourished, crossing over the arm still lingering uncertainly in the air. The card is once more between his middle and ring fingers, but his palm is facing up this time, open to the darkening sky peeking between the eaves of the buildings. "You want this or not?"
Slowly, Goro lowers his arm. “What I want is for you to tell me where you’ve been for the past three years.”
It’s the crux of the issue, truly. Akira has always been something like a cat; he comes and goes according to his whims, able to enter as if he’d always been there and able to leave as if he’d never been. His answer to “why are you here” is “because I decided to be here”, and has been since they first met. Goro knows this, but between the years apart and the enormity of Akira being here, his mind is clouded, hovering somewhere between several extremes at once.
The question isn’t “why is he here”. The question is “what has he been doing”.
Akira blinks at him, shifting back towards the alleyway. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it fucking does,” Goro snaps.
“Does it?” Akira levels back at him, steady, eyes peering through his glasses.
Some part of Goro, red and tense, hisses at the deflection from between his ribs. If you’re just going to be the same asshole you were three years ago, obsessed with your cards and deals and…bullshit, maybe it doesn’t. Maybe you can take your stupid pack of cards and shove them up your ass and never fucking bother me again—
No. Goro clamps down on that part of him, physically grinding his teeth. No, he knows Akira better than that. Akira taught him to see past his gut instincts, to temper the fire raging inside him. Goro refuses to give into it now. He just needs to more deeply consider the information before him.
Not everything Akira does has a premeditated meaning. In fact, very few things that Akira does, Goro would argue, are truly schemed or machinated beforehand. What he is excellent at, instead, is understanding the many ways his settings can be used in different circumstances and capitalizing on them as needed. The jack of spades that wins a hand of poker loses the round of old maid, and Akira takes these things into account.
Akira does not deal in certainties. He deals in possibilities, in chances; he hedges his bets and cuts his aces appropriately. A methodical review is in order.
Goro forces a deep breath through his lungs and thinks.
Akira stands in front of him on New Year's Eve; aside from the obvious potential for the awful joke, Goro still has the next few days off to recover from the shock of seeing his rival again. As for the back alleyway...he first met Akira in a far seedier one, and many of their most-important moments have been held between the heaving eaves of Tokyo's buildings. Additionally, Goro has nowhere he needs to be immediately, and the quiet alleyway gives them as much time as they need to talk to each other with only each other for company. If things go south, the alleyway offers a convenient escape route for Akira to vanish back to...wherever it is he goes now, to do their business and remove himself from the situation.
But it only offers. Akira doesn't deal in certainties.
With that in mind, Goro scans his rival again, dredging back up the new-first impressions of his roguish confidant. Akira has always been notoriously lacking in the self-care department, and Goro recalls the uphill fight it was to simply get him to eat one good meal a day during The Year in Tokyo; that he looks better doesn't only mean he's just been doing better, it means he's been trying. Trying to improve himself, trying to eat more, trying to sleep more, trying to respect his body's limits and needs. He doesn't smell like tobacco and secondhand smoke, but he doesn't smell like nauseating cologne or overpowering perfume either, and like walking into a streetlamp while texting on the phone, Goro abruptly realizes that means he isn't smoking as much as he used to, which means he's working on his addiction, too. All this offers Goro evidence: evidence to encourage taking a chance on rekindling their connection, on becoming part of each other's lives once more, on Akira's willingness to do what it takes to live.
But, like the missing ace from Goro's deck in his outstretched hand, the evidence only offers. Akira doesn't deal in certainties.
And Akira's palm, open and facing up with the perfect form to hold a pack of cards, is just as offered to him as the single card is.
Goro has the final say here, he realizes, and final says are not something Akira gives out lightly. He knows without a trace of doubt that, if he confirms Akira’s words and slots the pack of cards into Akira’s hands, his rival would crook a smile at him, accept the cards and Goro’s decision, and slip off into the alleyway without a word more. With their deal sealed and their business complete, Akira would disappear from Goro’s purview, taking with him all the little traces and glimpses of himself he left for Goro to find, and Akira “Joker” “Blank Mask” Kurusu's part will be silently erased from the play of Goro Akechi's life. Perhaps not for good, but they resume their courses and know each other as much as any two strangers living in the same city do, as much as any two actors of different productions using the same theater do, as much as any two gamblers visiting the same casino do.
But if he takes the card out of Akira’s hand and slots it back into his deck, the missing ace up his sleeve, would Akira remain? The answer prior to today has always been "no". Akira came and Akira went like a gust of wind: unpredictable and temperamental, unregulated and tempestuous. Yet, his body is no longer the body of someone with nothing left to do but throw himself to the winds; it's the body of someone with a reason to live, a reason to grow, a reason to stay.
Goro takes one more long look into Akira's eyes, trying to pierce through his fake glasses. "Of course it matters what happened to you, you moron," he scowls, plucking the card out of Akira's hand. "I missed you."
A noise from Akira hits Goro's ears as Goro pulls him in for a tight hug, holding him close.
Several long seconds pass before Goro feels a pair of arms awkwardly pat at his back, trying to reciprocate the hug. "So much for brainless sentimentality, huh, Detective?" The barb is barely there, and Goro hears the smile in Akira's voice.
Goro lets go of him long enough with one arm to lightly tap Akira's side. "I can still punch you, you know."
And oh, Goro's never hugged someone and told a joke, before. Akira's deep, full-bodied laughter resounds in Goro's bones, too, and he grins, returning to hugging him close.
Akira feels so much more solid in his grasp that it takes several seconds for his mind to convince his body to peel himself off his long-lost friend. Still, he keeps his arms around him. "It's good to have my rival back," he says, crinkled eyes meeting Akira's gaze. A pause, and Goro can only hope he says the next words without any of the vulnerability he feels. "I do have you back, right?"
If Goro's voice almost cracked, Akira's voice definitely does. "Yeah," he croaks, then clears his throat. "Couldn't leave my Detective without the Devil he knows best, after all."
That pun is worthy of a light flick to the side of the head. Goro delivers it promptly.
"Ow," Akira chuckles, and a fresh drop of blood trickles down his nose.
He withdraws a hand from Akira's waist -- the one holding the missing ace, and distantly he notices the relatively pristine condition it's in as he slides it back into the tuck case -- to fetch a tissue from his bag. "You're still telling me where you've been, by the way," he says, wiping the blood from Akira's lip.
Akira's body stills beneath his hands. "Some of it. Maybe. One day," he responds, equal parts suave and evasive.
"I have all the time I need to get the answers from you, I guess." His gloved hand feels along Akira's cheek, making sure nothing is bruised or broken.
"That you do, Crow," Akira says, crooking a smirk and tilting his head but staying settled enough for Goro to continue examining him for damage. "That you do."
A beat. "The broad strokes now would be appreciated, though."
He hums. "Woke up on February fourth with two sets of memories from February, which was definitely the worst way to get a migraine. Cleaned up some loose ends your sperm donor left -- no more murder, promise," he placates Goro's hard stare. "Won't make any promises about it being legal, but..." he shrugs. Goro lets it go; it's not like Akira's normal contacts consisted of a particularly law-abiding crowd. "No murder. Settled some debts and returned some favors. Wanted to be sure of some things before I came back."
"Very informative," Goro drawls, stuffing the blood-filled tissue into his own coat pocket.
"You asked for the broad strokes, not a count of the cards," Akira levels at him, lofty.
If Akira gets a bad arcana-based pun, then so does Goro. "The devil's in the details. It always is with you."
"You sure I'm not the devil in your details?" He smirks, and heat rushes to the tips of Goro's ears at the way Akira slings an arm over his shoulders. "I saw you checking me out earlier, Detective. See something you like?"
"Yes." Goro quickly reaches for something, anything to cover his blush. "Your lack of looking like you've crawled out of the grave, for one."
"Thank you," he says, magnanimously, leaning into Goro's touch. "I've been working on my tan."
A snort. "I wouldn't call it a “tan” so much as you appear to have blood in your body, but if we must." Goro wraps an arm around Akira in a similar fashion. "And you? You've certainly done a lot before you could see me. One would think your feelings for me extend beyond--"
The words leave his lips, stopping dead in their tracks. Akira's back is warm and damp. Goro can feel it through his glove.
His eyes land on Akira's gaze, staring into his face for an explanation.
Goro's rival retreats inwards a bit, slouching and chuckling from behind his glasses. "So. About the blood being in my body thing--"
Goro smiles, all teeth. "Turn around."
"Can do, team lead." Akira pivots cleanly on a heel to show Goro his back.
As suspected, there's a small damp patch of what can only be blood peeking through his thin trenchcoat. Goro takes off his glove to feel the area, touching along it with his left hand. "You have stitches."
"Yep."
"How many?"
"Only three left."
"Only three left."
"I had more."
"Where are they?"
"In the biohazard bin of a doctor's office. I paid a lot to have the wound looked at, by the way, you’d think you’d at least get the chance to keep them--"
"I mean your three current ones."
"All right around there. Due out in a couple days."
"You couldn't wait until then?"
"And miss saving my rival from his New Year's moping?" Akira shoots a grin over his shoulder.
"You came here knowing I'd punch you and pop your stitches. You're a moron."
"You didn’t pop ‘em, just pulled ‘em," Akira says, as if that's the important part, turning around when he feels Goro try to take off his coat to get a closer look. "Thought I could get all the healing done at once."
A huff escapes Goro's lips; they both know Goro would never do anything to really hurt him. "You're coming with me to my apartment. I don't have first aid supplies on me."
"Sure thing," Akira grins, angling himself towards the mouth of the alleyway. "Been wanting to check out your new place anyway."
As his rival straightens up, Goro's senses go on high alert, trying to detect any sign of weakness or vulnerability. "How did you know I've moved recently?"
"You couldn't crash at Leblanc's forever, could you? Though I don't think Sakura-san would mind too much..."
Something inside Goro cringes; hearing Akira “-san” someone so close to them feels, frankly, unnatural. "At least call him Sojiro."
"How has Sakura-san been doing?" Akira grins, just to be annoying. "Has Sakura-san's cafe changed at all? What about Sakura-san's daughter, Sakura-chan?"
"I can still punch you -- assuming Futaba doesn't first."
"I think she deserves one for what I put her through, honestly. All your friends do." With a small toss of his head, Akira starts walking out of the alleyway, into the streets. "After the stitches are out, though."
"Our friends," Goro corrects, adjusting his bag and following his rival. Though the sky is overcast, emerging from the shadowed eaves of the buildings feels somewhat like stepping out into the light of a new day. "They've been worried about you, too."
A noncommittal grunt. "How's Mona been doing? I'm surprised your little furry chaperone isn't here with us."
"He went home with Sumi and Futaba earlier to catch up with them."
"And avoid your end-of-year moping. Smart call."
"I'm not moping," Goro scowls. It likely defeats the purpose of protesting his lack of foul mood, but Akira doesn’t get away that easily.
"You aren't now. Should've seen yourself a few minutes ago, though. Totally moping before I showed up."
Beneath his gloves, Goro's hands itch to push Akira over onto the ground and to pull Akira close for a blistering kiss in equal measure -- a strange mixture, perhaps, but one very familiar to him when dealing with Akira. A weight is lifted from his feet and from around his chest, and Goro realizes he's happy that he's able to feel this way again.
"Lies," he insists, feeling his grin show more teeth than is strictly necessary. "Lies and slander."
“A bad mood is slander?” Akira laughs. As they approach the busier part of Tokyo, the light shining from the New Year’s decorations begins glimmering off Akira’s glasses. “What kind of house of cards have you gotten your reputation into without me, Detective?”
Goro shrugs loosely. “You’d be surprised how quiet it’s been without someone to get me into trouble.”
“Me? Get you into trouble?” Akira places a hand over his heart in dramatic fashion. “I’m not the one who started the Phantom Thieves on a whim. You get yourself into trouble just fine without me.”
“You’re one to talk, Mr. Blank Mask,” Goro snips back at him.
“The first time we met, I bailed you out of getting jumped by some thugs in Shinjuku. I don’t get you into trouble – I get you out of it, and I’m just wondering what I’ll have to get you out of this time.”
"You have nothing to get me out of, because I'm not in any trouble. But with you around, I'm doubtful this peace will last."
"You wound me, Detective. And to think I started playing by the rules for you."
"You? Playing by the rules? What's the catch, Joker? What little scheme have you concocted this time?"
"Well, my grand scheme is to mostly have both of us avoid any more jail time."
"...Both of us?"
"There are places in Japan that make the detention center you had your jail stint in look like a five-star hotel, Detective, and I think we could both go without seeing another cop uniform for the rest of our lives. Speaking of, what's Queen doing?"
"Makoto. She has no more ambitions of becoming a member of active law enforcement. What do you mean you've been in jail?"
"How did that happen? She have her rose-tinted glasses yanked off yet?"
"...She and Haru had a falling out about it. She's still pursuing law, just not policework. When were you in jail."
"Good ol' Noir, the one person who can talk sense into the smaller Niijima. Hey, do you think you have the ingredients for soba?"
"Haru. And Makoto. I have the basic ingredients at home, but nothing fancy. About jai-"
"I can make do, I guess," Akira hums, and Goro sees him side-eye a store down the street. "No chance for a shopping trip?"
"Not before I see your wounds."
"How about afterwards?"
"There's a small chance." He hums, watching Akira, a soft and warm part of him appreciating the sight of his long-missing friend striding in old fashion through the streets of Tokyo. Thunder rolls in the far distance, and the heavy clouds above their heads settle ever deeper into the busy city skyline; though the forecast calls for the storm to be gone by morning, Goro cannot help but hope for the opposite. "A bit better than a coin flip, I'd say."
"We've played longer odds, haven't we, Crow?" Firmly entrenched in the city's main streets, they stop before a crosswalk. Akira shoots him a grin over his shoulder and holds out a hand. "We have ourselves a deal."
Goro matches his rival, meeting his smile and outstretched hand in kind. "We have ourselves a deal, Joker."
The winter rain is cold – practically near snowing – as they head to the convenience store a few blocks away from Goro’s apartment later that night. But Akira’s face is bright and full of life, so Goro only feels a little bad when he takes the umbrella and races ahead, Akira in close pursuit behind him, laughing into the wind.
