Archive of Our Own ^beta

Every Wednesday, twenty minutes before Leblanc closes, Akira makes sure he has the store clean and ready to lock up. Ten minutes before closing, he starts to make one last cup of coffee for the evening.

His phone buzzes aggressively on the countertop.

Akira puts his phone on do not disturb and rushes to finish preparing the coffee, because it's Wednesday night, and every Wednesday–

Five minutes before Leblanc closes, the door opens, and Goro Akechi comes in from the cold. Akira sets the cup of coffee in front of his favorite seat just as he slides into it. Akechi murmurs his thanks, takes a sip, and gives Akira the same approving nod he does every week. "Excellent as always, Kurusu-kun."

Akira smiles, trying not to look like his heart is doing somersaults around his ribs. "You keep saying that, and yet I can't ever convince you to come in for more than one cup a week."

"Once a week is already high praise. Your ego doesn't need any extra inflating from me," Akechi replies coolly. He traces the edge of the saucer with one gloved fingertip. 

Akira forces himself not to watch Akechi's hand. Now is very much not the time to think about what that same fingertip would feel like tracing the line of his jaw. Instead he leans up against the counter, giving Akechi a lazy smirk. "What, not confident you could knock me back down a peg?"

Akechi's almost-red eyes flick up to his disdainfully. "Please. I simply don't see the point in wasting my time and effort."

Akira's heart stutters, because his taste in romance has more than a few wires crossed where they probably shouldn't be, and he feels so alive when Akechi gets mean like this. He's got it so bad. "Oh, my heart is breaking," he deadpans. "How could I fail my fated rival so deeply that he would come to think of me as no more than a waste of time?"

Akechi huffs as if he's annoyed, but Akira can hear the laugh he's covering beneath it. "You're ridiculous."

"Wouldn't be much fun if I wasn't," Akira replies, and starts to prepare another cup of coffee for himself, just to have something to do with his hands. If he doesn't, he might start wringing them nervously. Or even worse, he might do something incredibly ill-advised, something like brushing back that stray lock of hair that's fallen forward to hang a little too far over Akechi's face, tucking it gently behind his ear, letting his fingers linger against Akechi's cheek–

Coffee. Right. Coffee. He puts a little extra bustle into his brewing. "So," he says, way too casually, "how was your week? Anything interesting happening in the world of Ace Detective Goro Akechi?" He likes to draw that phrase out at every opportunity, both because it pisses Akechi off every so often and because then he has an excuse to taste the way Goro rolls off his tongue.

Akechi doesn't answer right away. Sometimes he doesn't answer at all, so Akira pays it no mind. Instead he watches Akechi take another sip of his coffee, following the sweet line of his throat as he swallows, and wishes again he wasn't such a coward.

It's been two years since the last time they kissed, and Akira still remembers perfectly what it's like to have Akechi pressed up against him, their mouths crashing together, their hands clutching for some way to pull each other even closer. He's never stopped thinking about it. It seemed so easy to do when he was seventeen and riding high on the adrenaline of watching his possible death careening towards him, to just tug Akechi into some dark corner of Sae's Palace away from the others and see which of them would pin the other to the wall this time.

(And then Akira died, and then Akechi died, and then the world was being restitched seam by seam around them and they didn't have time and Akira was so terrified of losing Akechi again, and then he lost Akechi anyway.)

"I've been thinking," Akechi says, and Akira blinks back to himself. He's worrying at the edge of the saucer with that same fingertip again. Is he nervous? "The new year's almost here, and it might be time for a change of pace."

"Oh?" Akira finishes preparing his cup and takes a sip, savoring the bloom of its bitterness. He cocks his hip to brace it against the counter, tilting his head towards Akechi to indicate his curiosity. "Tired of your career? Switching majors?"

"I'm considering leaving Tokyo, actually," Akechi says. 

The world freezes, crystallizes, and Akira is suddenly afraid to breathe in case it shatters around them. Leaving, leaving, leaving, the word hurtles around his head, faster and shriller each time until it's a tinnitic buzz in his ears. "Why," he manages to croak after some indeterminate amount of time.

Akechi shrugs. He's not looking at Akira. He's not meeting his eyes. He's started sliding the cup around inside its saucer, and the scrape of the porcelain prickles up the back of Akira's neck until he's ready to scream. "I've been here all my life, after all. I never thought about what to do after...Shido, and now that I have a future beyond him I'm not entirely sure how to use it. Why not see what else is out there?"

"When will you be back?" Akira has to try a few times before he gets it out; his throat is bone dry, and talking feels like he's forcing the words up through a stoppered drain.

"I don't know that I will be, actually," Akechi says, and his voice sounds very far away. "Hard to say just yet."

The last time Akechi disappeared, Akira spent the next year wishing he'd done more, hating that he hadn't. Tearing himself to pieces every night as he stared at the ceiling of the childhood room that wasn't really his anymore, you fucking asshole, why didn't you say anything, why didn't you do anything, it wasn't hard before, why couldn't you just ask him to stay one night– And then he came back to Tokyo, and the very next week, Akechi was in Leblanc and sipping a cup of coffee in the same seat as always. It was such a miracle already that Akira didn't dare to ask for anything more.

He's been scared ever since that bulkhead door slammed into the space between them. Push Akechi too far, ask him for too much, and maybe he'll seal himself away beyond all hope of recovery again, and this time they won't be so lucky. Akira never wanted to be a yoke around Akechi's neck any more than Akechi wanted to be a leash around his. And if what Akechi really wants is to leave, how can Akira chain him down? You're supposed to let things go when you love them, aren't you?

"Well," Akechi says, a little stiffly. Akira wonders how long Akechi's been waiting for a response that never came. He wonders how he's even supposed to make one. "I felt I should let you know, at least, so you wouldn't have to distress yourself on my account this time. If you'll excuse me, Kurusu-kun."

The quiet squeak of Akechi's soles against the tiles slices cleanly through the shock rooting Akira's feet to the floor, and suddenly his mind is overclocking in pure animal desperation. "Wait–Akechi, wait," he stutters out, fumbling with the catch at the end of the counter by the register, if he goes around the far end it'll be too late, and oh god the doorbell has never sounded so ugly and discordant. "Goro, wait!" he yells as he manages to throw up the partition, half-tripping as he stumbles through it towards the front door, and he slams into Akechi's back so hard he nearly sends them both sprawling, both of them saved only by Akechi's grip on the door frame.

"Akira?" Akechi says, so quietly Akira almost doesn't hear him over the din of his own too-loud breathing.

Akira grabs two fistfuls of Akechi's coat, hauling him back inside, slamming the door behind them. He flicks the lock shut for good measure. "Wait," he says again, backing off half a pace or so, releasing his grip on Akechi.

Akechi turns toward him, his expression as guarded as if he anticipates a blow. "Akira," he says again, and this time Akira's brain catches on the sudden absence of that impersonal Kurusu-kun. "What is it?"

So many words are tripping over each other in their haste to get out of his mouth, to be The Thing He Said when he remembers this moment later. Akira decides he wouldn't be able to put any of them together coherently anyway, sets his hands on either side of Akechi's face probably a little too roughly, and seals his mouth to Akechi's before he can talk himself out of it.

Akechi shudders. Akechi makes a low, wounded noise in his throat. Akira is just starting to pull back (oh god he fucked up he shouldn't have) when Akechi grabs his shoulders, pressing finger-shaped bruises into them as he hauls Akira around, and then the bell jangles again as Akechi slams his back into the panes of glass, kissing Akira like he wants to drown in his mouth. It's just as amazing as Akira remembers, only even better because he's been aching for it for two eternal years.

"Goro," Akira gasps, at some point when they've stopped making out against the door long enough for Akechi–for Goro to start pressing kisses into his neck instead. When did his hands wind up tangled in Goro's impossibly soft hair? He likes them being there, likes the noise Goro makes when he yanks on the strands, really likes the sharp scrape of Goro's teeth over his throat in response. "Goro?"

Goro pulls back enough to meet his eyes, looking flushed and smug and a little annoyed at being interrupted. "What," he says, clearly trying not to sound out of breath and failing entirely.

"Don't leave Tokyo," Akira says. He lets go of Goro's hair, rubs a thumb along his cheekbone tenderly. "Stay with me."

Goro looks at him, a trace of that previous wariness filtering into his eyes. "For how long," he says flatly after a few moments.

Akira blinks, feeling entirely lost. "Huh?"

Goro lets go of him, and oh, Akira doesn't like that at all. He steps back, and Akira feels the distance yawn between them again. "Are you looking for a repeat of that November?" His voice is that shade of too calm that tells Akira he's leaning heavily into one of his masks. "Get another round of fascination and frustration out of our systems, and move along when it's done? I'm not opposed, you're a pleasant enough distraction. I could delay my plans a little on your account. I'd just like to ascertain your own expectations beforehand."

Akira searches his brain for some response, but it's adrift in a sea of what the fuck. His expectations? A repeat? Move along after a round? But when Goro kissed him, it felt like he'd taken every ounce of desire Akira had given him and reflected it back twice over, like he'd been burning for this just as long–

Ah. That's why.

"Okay," Akira says. "This conversation clearly isn't going anywhere useful, so I'm going to start over."

It's delightful to watch Goro be the one caught off guard. Akira has always loved how pretty he is when he's surprised, how the walls he puts between him and the world falter for just a moment and let Akira catch a glimpse of the vulnerable person taking shelter behind them. "I beg your pardon?"

"You can beg me later if you really want," Akira deadpans, and relishes the strangled noise that squawks out of Goro in response. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself. He can do this. He has to do this. "So, cards on the table. I, Akira Kurusu, have been carrying a torch for you, Goro Akechi, for...oh, close to two and a half years now. No, really," he says when Goro makes a disbelieving sound. "You can ask any of our mutual friends–"

"'Mutual' is certainly pushing it," Goro mutters.

"The semantics don't matter when you already know what I mean," Akira parries. "As I was saying, you can ask any of them and they'll all confirm that I never shut up about how much I like you, and I haven't for years. This isn't just some passing whim of mine, and it never has been."

Goro runs a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. "Oh yes, because you were so eager to–"

Akira steps in and kisses him, quick and fleeting. He remembers it used to be a pretty effective way to shut Goro up before he got enough momentum to steamroll a conversation. "I am trying to give you a heartfelt confession here," he says reproachfully when he pulls back, and Goro just stares at him, red to the tips of his ears. (Cute.)

Another deep breath. He feels...exposed. He hates feeling uncertain, off-balance. He knows they have that in common, but it doesn't make it any easier. Still, if he gets this wrong to save his pride now, he has the sinking feeling that that'll be it, and he'll never see Goro again. So Akira musters his courage and cloaks himself inside Joker's mask, remembering how it felt to be that daring person who could do anything he wanted to do. "Look. I am scared out of my mind of screwing things up with you, because you kind of have a thing for disappearing on me unexpectedly, okay? I never know if I'll push too hard and scare you off. And I don't know how many chances I have left to make this work, but it feels like there aren't a lot." 

At some point, he's started staring at the floor, mortified by his own vulnerability. But when he looks up, Goro's eyes have softened a little, and that feels like...something, at least. "So what happens now?" Goro asks finally, still a little stiff.

Akira rests one hand against Goro's cheek, and feels a thrill when Goro doesn't flinch away from him. "I don't know," he says honestly. "But none of it's going to happen if you leave."

Goro lets the tension dangle between them for a few agonizing moments; then he rests a hand on Akira's hip, tentative, as if he's afraid the touch might burn him. "That almost sounds like a proposition," he says, and lets the question dangle, too.

"It is if you'd like it to be," Akira replies, his heart thundering in his throat.

Goro leans in close. When he kisses Akira this time, it's nothing like the others they've had. It's slow and sweet where they were greedy and desperate before, pressing their bodies into each other's soft corners as they twine closer together. When Goro pulls back he never goes far, quickly easing into another kiss, and then another. Akira thinks he could get used to this. He'd like to get used to this.

"So there is one thing," Akira says, when they finally do break a little further apart, and Goro freezes. He smiles, threading his fingers gently through Goro's soft hair. "If you keep only coming over once a week and ordering one single coffee, I may actually have to kill you."

Goro hesitates, and then a real smile slowly lights up his face. "I'll have to think about it," he says, falsely coy. "It's an awful inconvenience, after all. Think you can convince me, Akira?"

"Sure, I'm willing to give it a shot," Akira replies, and closes the distance between them once more.

[coda]

The next day, he finds exactly 69 missed texts from Futaba, which start out critiquing his performance and end on sheer disgust. He texts her back that she brought it on herself by spying on his immoral liaisons to begin with.

"It seems I've been added to your old teammates' group chat once again," Goro remarks beside him, wrapped up in one of Akira's spare blankets like a gangly turtle. "They're certainly...enthusiastic."

"Yeah, they're excited because they think they now they won't have to listen to me gush about you anymore. Joke's on them," Akira replies, nestling his head onto Goro's shoulder and peeking at his screen. Wow, the group chat is scrolling fast. "Now that I have a boyfriend, I intend to be ten times as obnoxious as I was when I was single and pining."

"You're already so obnoxious that I doubt that's even possible," Goro says, leaning back against him comfortably. "Besides, shouldn't you be spending more of your time on me than annoying your friends?"

"I'm a talented guy, I can multitask," Akira says. "And why can't we annoy my friends together? I think it'd be a great couples bonding exercise."

"You make a compelling argument," Goro replies, and then he puts down his phone and turns to kiss Akira again, and neither of them thinks much about Akira's friends for a little while after that.