The attic, the memories, the red. It had no place in the conversation, no reason to be spoken aloud—but sometimes, his mind wandered places his mouth was too slow to stop.
And now, Dove was looking at him like that.
Like he knew. Like he understood something he was never supposed to.
And God, does he wish he could stop.
Even if it was hopeless. Even if it was painful.
Even if it was better than here.
Because this—this stasis, this endless waiting game, this world full of ghosts that are too jagged or too kind, ghosts that shouldn’t be here—this is worse.
Worse than facing him again.
Worse than facing any Akechi.
Worse than facing an Akechi that is alive.
So Akira does what he always does—he covers it up.
"Ah, my bad," he says lightly, waving a hand in dismissal, as if swatting the whole thing away like an errant coffee bean on the counter. "Just some stupid rambling—love my hotel room, actually. Five stars, would recommend. Great ambiance, totally amazed by an actual bed and not something supported on crates—"
He stops.
Because Dove is moving.
Because Dove is reaching into his coat.
Because the second Akira sees the edge of that tape, his stomach lurches.
His breath stalls.
His heart doesn’t drop—no, that would be too soft of a metaphor. It’s more like it gets ripped out and slammed onto the floor, because he knows, knows exactly what Dove is about to say before the words even leave his mouth.
"Kira-san," Dove says, and there’s something grave in his voice.
Akira stares.
The look in Dove’s eyes tells him everything.
It’s a look he’s seen before.
He’s seen it on himself, reflected in a dirty mirror after waking up from timelines he doesn’t talk about.
He’s seen it in the faces of others, in the way they hesitate before saying something they know will hurt.
And yet—
And yet, his mouth moves before he can think better of it.
"Shit—if this is a confession, I gotta warn you, I’m kind of a heartbreaker," he says, flashing a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Or, y’know, heartbroken, but who’s keeping track?"
It’s easy. It’s always easy. Throw out a joke, play the fool, keep the tension from sinking in too deep.
But even as he keeps the mask up, his fingers twitch against the counter.
Please be a wrong tape. Please be a normal damn tape.
And God, he doesn’t know if he can stomach watching it.
no subject
It was a stupid thing to let slip, really.
The attic, the memories, the red. It had no place in the conversation, no reason to be spoken aloud—but sometimes, his mind wandered places his mouth was too slow to stop.
And now, Dove was looking at him like that.
Like he knew. Like he understood something he was never supposed to.
And God, does he wish he could stop.
Even if it was hopeless. Even if it was painful.
Even if it was better than here.
Because this—this stasis, this endless waiting game, this world full of ghosts that are too jagged or too kind, ghosts that shouldn’t be here—this is worse.
Worse than facing him again.
Worse than facing any Akechi.
Worse than facing an Akechi that is alive.
So Akira does what he always does—he covers it up.
"Ah, my bad," he says lightly, waving a hand in dismissal, as if swatting the whole thing away like an errant coffee bean on the counter. "Just some stupid rambling—love my hotel room, actually. Five stars, would recommend. Great ambiance, totally amazed by an actual bed and not something supported on crates—"
He stops.
Because Dove is moving.
Because Dove is reaching into his coat.
Because the second Akira sees the edge of that tape, his stomach lurches.
His breath stalls.
His heart doesn’t drop—no, that would be too soft of a metaphor. It’s more like it gets ripped out and slammed onto the floor, because he knows, knows exactly what Dove is about to say before the words even leave his mouth.
"Kira-san," Dove says, and there’s something grave in his voice.
Akira stares.
The look in Dove’s eyes tells him everything.
It’s a look he’s seen before.
He’s seen it on himself, reflected in a dirty mirror after waking up from timelines he doesn’t talk about.
He’s seen it in the faces of others, in the way they hesitate before saying something they know will hurt.
And yet—
And yet, his mouth moves before he can think better of it.
"Shit—if this is a confession, I gotta warn you, I’m kind of a heartbreaker," he says, flashing a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Or, y’know, heartbroken, but who’s keeping track?"
It’s easy. It’s always easy. Throw out a joke, play the fool, keep the tension from sinking in too deep.
But even as he keeps the mask up, his fingers twitch against the counter.
Please be a wrong tape. Please be a normal damn tape.
And God, he doesn’t know if he can stomach watching it.