Akira waves a hand, brushing off the compliment with the ease of someone who’s heard it before but refuses to let it stick. Instead, he leans further into the counter, elbow propped, cheek resting against his palm as he regards Dove with that ever-present glint.
"Oh, I just have a sixth sense for when an Akechi’s stuck in his own head," he muses, smirk widening slightly. "It’s not that you guys don’t know the answer—you just don’t know if you can trust it."
He delivers that last line with a wink, but his amusement doesn’t quite reach his chest.
Because really, wasn’t that the whole damn problem?
He swallows down the familiar pang of something too much before it can surface. The kind of thing that should’ve been said in another life, to someone who isn’t here anymore. To someone who sat across from him once, looking just as lost—just as trapped in his own mind.
But that’s not the reality Akira got. And this isn’t his Akechi.
It doesn’t stop his heart from twisting all the same.
And then Dove says that.
"I must say, this is very well done, Kira."
He doesn’t react outwardly—doesn’t let his fingers twitch or his shoulders tense. Instead, he just raises a brow, smoothly pushing himself back off the counter like that comment, like that earnest smile hadn’t just made his heart lurch in his chest.
"Oh?" he drawls, shifting his weight as if backing off from something too close. "Well if they ever do a competition for getting the title Joker I could~ compete with my expertise in coffee."
His voice is light, teasing, but his thoughts are anything but.
Because yeah. Yeah, he knows.
Knows how it must feel for him—for an Akechi who isn’t sure what part of his past was real and what was just a carefully constructed lie. Knows how fragile that uncertainty can make a person.
And if Akira’s being honest with himself—well, he’s been doing a hell of a lot of thinking lately.
Enough to put time into perfecting this little craft of his.
It’s not like he didn’t have time before. It’s not like he wasn’t already spending nights in Leblanc, tucked away in that attic, making cup after cup of coffee until his hands worked on instinct alone.
He exhales through his nose, eyes flickering toward the ceiling as if he could see past it—upward, to something distant, something gone.
"...Wonder if my attic’s up there with the rest of them," he muses aloud, voice quieter, thoughtful.
For a moment, his mind betrays him, conjuring an image that never quite leaves.
Tw: blood related flashback related to the tape
"Oh, I just have a sixth sense for when an Akechi’s stuck in his own head," he muses, smirk widening slightly. "It’s not that you guys don’t know the answer—you just don’t know if you can trust it."
He delivers that last line with a wink, but his amusement doesn’t quite reach his chest.
Because really, wasn’t that the whole damn problem?
He swallows down the familiar pang of something too much before it can surface. The kind of thing that should’ve been said in another life, to someone who isn’t here anymore. To someone who sat across from him once, looking just as lost—just as trapped in his own mind.
But that’s not the reality Akira got. And this isn’t his Akechi.
It doesn’t stop his heart from twisting all the same.
And then Dove says that.
"I must say, this is very well done, Kira."
He doesn’t react outwardly—doesn’t let his fingers twitch or his shoulders tense. Instead, he just raises a brow, smoothly pushing himself back off the counter like that comment, like that earnest smile hadn’t just made his heart lurch in his chest.
"Oh?" he drawls, shifting his weight as if backing off from something too close. "Well if they ever do a competition for getting the title Joker I could~ compete with my expertise in coffee."
His voice is light, teasing, but his thoughts are anything but.
Because yeah. Yeah, he knows.
Knows how it must feel for him—for an Akechi who isn’t sure what part of his past was real and what was just a carefully constructed lie. Knows how fragile that uncertainty can make a person.
And if Akira’s being honest with himself—well, he’s been doing a hell of a lot of thinking lately.
Enough to put time into perfecting this little craft of his.
It’s not like he didn’t have time before. It’s not like he wasn’t already spending nights in Leblanc, tucked away in that attic, making cup after cup of coffee until his hands worked on instinct alone.
He exhales through his nose, eyes flickering toward the ceiling as if he could see past it—upward, to something distant, something gone.
"...Wonder if my attic’s up there with the rest of them," he muses aloud, voice quieter, thoughtful.
For a moment, his mind betrays him, conjuring an image that never quite leaves.
Sheets. Stained in red.
His Akechi's warmth.
Damn it.