Archive of Our Own

It's rare to see Goro Akechi without a pristine sweater vest and a firm crease in his pants. Even his pajamas are a formal affair—he sleeps draped in smooth pinstripes and gleaming buttons, refusing to relinquish control even in the comforting embrace of the nighttime.

It's a shock for him to walk into LeBlanc with his upper half disheveled, ruffled, and drenched in stain.

“Oh,” Akira says, eyes tracing Goro’s miserable figure. “Uh, trying out a new look?”

Goro’s skin curls around his eyes, face twitching and snarling. “No, I am not. Someone down the street ran into me with a soda.”

Akira hops out from behind the bar. Goro's hair is a mess, his clothes ruined. The aftershocks of the event cover him—his shirt drips, his hands glisten, his skin flushes. Akira pictures an angry little rain cloud hovering over his head, spitting and thundering like a cartoon.

This shouldn't be endearing, Akira thinks. I shouldn't smile.

“Hey, it's okay,” Akira says, wanting so badly to reach out and touch—no, hold—no, soothe the man in front of him. He resists, barely. “I have plenty of clean clothes upstairs, you can go grab something. I don't mind.”

Goro blushes. “No, please, I don't want to be an inconvenience—“

“Dude, you've been my best friend for three years. You're more than welcome to borrow a shirt from me. Hell, you can have one of my shirts, if you want one.”

“Keep your shirts, Kurusu-kun. I doubt they'd fit me properly,” Goro sighs. He has that impenetrable mask on his face again, the one he slips on when he doesn't want anyone to see him. He glances down at his stained chest. “... But I would appreciate a loan, if you don't mind.”

I would give you the shirt off of my back if it would make you less miserable, Akira thinks, biting his lip. The thought bubbles up in his throat like acid, sour and difficult to swallow.

“Anything for you, my prince. Anything at all.” He punctuates the words with a deep, sarcastic bow.

Goro rolls his eyes. “Just the shirt is fine—no need for a knight in shining armor.” Akira sucks his teeth in faux disappointment.

“Ah, that's a shame. I guess I'll call and cancel the horse rental.”

“You're an idiot,” Goro huffs, smirking. His face looks more relaxed, eyes less stormy. Thank goodness, Akira thinks. “Anyway, I should—um, I suppose I need to—”

“Go change.” Akira steps out of the way, sweeping his arm towards the stairs. “Leave your shirt in the attic, I’ll take it over to the laundromat later. I needed to go today, anyway.”

“That won't be necessary. I can take it myself.”

“Akechi. I can take care of it.” Goro tuts, rolling his eyes.

“You're ridiculous. But... thank you.”

Goro scurries away up the stairs. Akira sighs, head lolling down onto his chest.

It’s too easy to flirt with Goro Akechi. They’ve always had that sort of rapport—sidelong glances, sharp comments, exaggerated shows of one-upmanship.

The problem is, those sidelong glances cut deep. The sharp comments know exactly where to land. And the competitions, Akira craves them, and Goro knows it. Goro sees him, understands him in a way that the others don't.

It’s too easy to flirt with Goro Akechi; too hard not to fall in love with him. It's impossible not to fall in love with the man whose eyes flay your soul every time they look at you.

It’s difficult, too, when the much adored steward of all your secrets seems shocked that you’d let him borrow a shirt.

Akira swallows. He doesn't want you, he thinks. He’s just your friend. Loving him would be a betrayal. It’s impossible not to fall in love with Goro Akechi. I'm good at doing the impossible, Akira thinks, arguing with himself.

Akira shakes the thoughts out of his head. He makes some coffee—Goro seems like he could use it.

By the time Akechi comes back downstairs, there’s a steaming cup of Blue Mountain on the counter. Akira looks up to offer it to him, and—oh, he thinks. Oh no.

“I hope this is okay,” Goro says, fiddling with the cuffs of the shirt. It's nothing special; it’s white and plain, the sort of button down that every twenty-year-old guy has stuffed in the back of his closet. The light fabric hangs awkwardly on Goro’s slim shoulders—and, for whatever reason, he has it buttoned all the way up to the top.

The shirt doesn't look bad, but it looks like it belongs to another man. Akira takes a moment to swallow those implications lest he choke on them.

It's impossible not to fall in love with Goro Akechi, he thinks again, sheepish.

“There’s no need to button the top button, Akechi-san.” Akira tries not to sound breathless, but he is breathless. His heart runs one marathon around his chest, and then another. Goro Akechi is wearing my shirt. He aches to reach forward like a love-struck teenager. Fuck. “It's not like you're wearing a tie.”

“Oh? I didn't expect you to care about the rules and expectations of fashion,” Goro retorts, glancing down at Akira’s coffee stained sweater.

“What can I say? I'm full of surprises. Anyway, I made coffee. I'm assuming that's what you came here for—before the soda assaulted you, that is.”

“Yes,” Goro sighs, settling in and pulling the mug across the counter. “University is a great deal easier than being a third year, but I'm always exhausted.”

Akira hums in understanding. He's enrolled as well, though his course load isn't as strenuous.

“I won't be able to stay long. I told one of my professors that I would attend her little club meeting.” Akechi sounds like he'd rather go outside and bathe in soda again. “She wants me to join. I've met some members. I am... hesitant.”

“Hey! Play nice with the other students, young man.”

“I won't make any promises.” Akechi lifts the cup to his lips, downing the coffee in one long drag. Akira watches his Adam’s apple bob, peeking in and out of the buttoned collar. He puts down the empty cup, groaning.

“That bad, huh?”

“No comment.” Akechi’s lips quirk, dangerous—the comment is written there, if you know how to read it. “I’d better get going. Thanks for the coffee. And the, ah, shirt.”

“Anytime,” Akira replies, gazing at the man in front of him. Finished with his coffee, Akechi gets up to leave. “Wait—stop for a second.”

Akechi obeys, furrowing his brow. Akira’s the one who should stop. He doesn't—he's always had difficulty controlling his impulses. He walks out from behind the bar, reaching tentative hands up towards Goro’s chest. “May I?”

Goro nods in assent, though his brow furrows deeper. Akira’s heart thunders as he wraps his fingers into the collar of Goro’s shirt—into the collar of his shirt. He slips in between the panels of fabric, fingertips brushing against warm skin.

In one careful motion, he pops the button free.

If his hands linger on Goro’s collarbone for a second too long... well, that’s Akira’s business.

“There,” he whispers, eyes flicking down to survey the now-exposed flesh. This close, Akira can smell Goro’s breath; it smells like coffee. Longing grips his chest like a vice. “Much better.”

“O-oh, that’s... um. Thank you?” They gaze at each other for a long moment. “I have to go,” Goro says, turning to leave. He gives Akira one last look as he goes, as though he wants to say something. He doesn’t.

Leblanc seems so much emptier without him.

It's impossible not to fall in love with Goro Akechi, Akira thinks for the third time. I’m in love with Goro Akechi, he admits, finally. Fuck.

A week later, the first real chill of Autumn blows into Tokyo. It's still pleasant outside by Akira’s standards, having grown up in the mountainous countryside—but the crowded masses are already draped in layer upon layer of winter garb, a sea of scarves and hats and jackets.

It's Sunday, and nobody’s busy, so they're all in the attic, lounging around in sweaters and thick pants and long, comfy socks. He and Sojiro finished the attic over the summer—insulated walls, carpeting, a small bathroom. It'll be the first winter where his friends can enjoy the space without freezing to death.

Especially Akechi. Akira stifles a grin. Goro hates the cold more than anyone, not that he’ll ever admit to it.

Speaking of which—

“I thought Akechi was going to be here today,” Ann says, huffing a strand of hair out of her face.

“He’ll be here soon.” Akira's leg bounces in anticipation. He's been checking his phone every few seconds. Akechi’s last message arrived 15 minutes ago—I'll be there soon, it says.

Like an answered prayer, there’s a knock at the door. “Oh! Speak of the devil,” Ann laughs.

Akira leaps up off the couch and bounds over to the door, swinging it open. As expected, it's Goro—cheeks wind-kissed and pink, fine hair rumpled and frizzy, nose wrinkled in distaste.

“Well,” Akira chuckles, dragging his eyes up and down Goro’s body. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

“Shut up, Kurusu.”

“Hey! Don't be rude. I could just stand here forever and refuse to let you in.”

“Well I could just-”

“Oh my God, stop flirting and let him in,” Ann whines, “I haven't been able to tell him about Mari yet!”

Akira gets called out for flirting on a near constant basis. This time, it hits him right in the chest, catapulting his heart into overdrive.

Unaware of Akira’s inner turmoil, Goro raises an eyebrow. “Mari? Your, ah—coworker, yes? I assumed that after the last incident, she'd never find work again.”

“Ugh, I wish—” Ann huffs, and then they're off. Goro removes his coat and shoes, settling opposite Ann’s chattering figure at the tea table. His expression remains slack, but Akira sees the quiet delight in his eyes.

“Well, those two are out of commission for the next hour. Smash, anyone?” Futaba lifts her switch up out of her bag, dangling it back and forth like an enticing treat.

“Oh hell yeah,” Ryuji cheers, “it's on.”

Ten minutes later, they're all mashing buttons. Makoto bites her lip, Ryuji leans forward with his elbows on his knees, Haru makes unhappy noises of frustration, Yusuke sits cross-legged on Akira's bed, drawing in his sketchbook.

“And then she tried to tell the make-up artist that he was making her look like a clown,” Ann whispers, leaning forward on the table. “Can you believe that? It was so rude!”

“She sounds like quite a piece of work.” Goro shakes his head, delivering an exaggerated sigh of contempt. Under Ann’s influence, his voice sounds more feminine, more song-like. He's so cute, Akira thinks, staring at him.

He's accepting the fact that he's in love with Goro Akechi. There are worse fates, he thinks. I could be in love with Ann. She’s practically my sister, and she's a lesbian.

“Dude! Pay attention! You've fallen off the map, like, three times.”

“Ryuji, shut up! Let him die! If he wants to make goo-goo eyes at Akechi, that's his own stupid fault.”

Akechi glances over at the sound of his name, raising an eyebrow. His arms cross tight against his chest, and he's shifting around in his chair. He looks cold, Akira thinks.

His lives are all gone anyway, so he sets down his controller, gets up, and walks to his chest of drawers. He roots around through half-folded clothes until he finds his softest, most comfortable hoodie, simple and gray with pills on the fabric and holes in the sleeves.

Akechi gazes up at him, eyebrow raised. Ann looks at him as well. Unperturbed by their questioning glances, Akira walks over to the table and drapes the fabric over Akechi’s shoulders, smoothing the creases against his back with a gentle hand.

“What on Earth are you doing?” Goro’s cheeks graduate from wind-kissed to crimson. He's looking down at the hoodie like he's never seen one before.

“You looked cold.” Goro’s face scrunches up, eyes flashing.

“I'm fine. There's no need to coddle me.”

“Oh. Well, in that case, I'll take it back.”

“No,” Goro says. He blushes. “I mean—I may as well keep it. You went through all that trouble.” His fingers curl around each half of the zipper. He pulls the fabric around him like a blanket, eschewing the sleeves. Akira's heart melts down into the floor, sticking him by Goro’s side.

“You guys are gross, holy shit,” Futaba yells. “Get over here, you gay dumbass, we’re starting a new game.” Ann giggles.

“You guys are cute,” she says, sending them both meaningful glances. “We should double date sometime. Shiho has been dying to try out this new tea shop in—”

“We aren't dating,” Goro snaps, words lashing against Akira’s skin like glass. Oh. Of course.

“That's right, sweetheart. I gave you my hoodie. We’re married now,” Akira jokes, praying for the words to break the tension. It works—Goro rolls his eyes, shoulders relaxing. Ann laughs.

Goro wears his hoodie for the rest of the afternoon, looking relaxed and warm. The sight breaks Akira’s heart and puts it back together again in turns.

Evening arrives. Most of the crew has left, for various reasons. Now, it's just Ann, Ryuji and Goro. Ann and Goro are scrolling through their phones; Ryuji and Akira are half-heartedly playing rounds of Smash.

“I guess I should head out,” Ann sighs, looking at the time on her phone. “Ugh. I have to do stuff tomorrow. Mondays suck.”

Akira pauses the game, putting down his controller. “Alright! Have fun, be yourself, get home safe.”

“Yeah, I'll probably leave after we finish this round,” Ryuji groans. “Seeya, Ann.”

“Bye, Ryuji! Bye, Akira! Bye—oh.”

Akira looks over at Goro’s chair, eyebrow raised, and—oh.

He’s fast asleep, Akira's jacket still draped over his shoulders, loose fingers curled around the fabric. His soft face rests against the hood, brow unfurled, pink lips parted.

“Bye, Goro,” Ann whispers, giggling. Finger pressed to her lips, she leaves, shutting the door with exaggerated quietness.

“Damn, he's conked out, huh? I've never seen him fall asleep like that before.”

“Yeah,” Akira says, eyes locked on the sleeping figure. His heart aches to jump out of his throat and crawl its way over to the recliner. He doesn't let it. “Me neither.”

“You... Eh, never mind.”

Akira looks back at Ryuji, raising a brow. “What is it?”

“It's nothin’. I was just thinking about you and Akechi. You guys are—uh—pretty tight, you know?”

“We’re ‘pretty tight’ too, Ryuji.”

“Yeah, duh,” Ryuji scoffs, rolling his eyes. “We’re bros. You know I'd do anything for you, dude. But... I'm just gonna say it. You like Akechi, don't you?”

“Yeah, of course I do. He's our friend.”

“Don’t give me that. The way you act around him, man—it’s almost like you're in love with the guy.”

Akira freezes for a moment too long.

“Oh.” Ryuji’s quiet realization kicks Akira’s brain back online, but it's too late. Ryuji knows.

“Yeah,” Akira says, swallowing.

“Hey! No need to sound so put out about it. It's not, like, a bad thing. You're a total catch.” Ryuji bumps their shoulders together, smiling. “You should go for it.”

“I don't think I can.”

“Why not?”

Akira looks back over at Goro’s sleeping figure. Goro Akechi is relentless—he always sticks to his guns, and sometimes, he can be an absolute brat. Not only that, he’d hated Akira at first.

On the outside, the pair come across like they're diametrically opposed. Akira has the sort of country-boy approachability that makes strangers want to pour out their life story; Goro has the sort of polite unfriendliness that makes strangers run away.

But Goro sees the layer beneath his friendly surface, catching Akira’s frustrations when no-one else can. He sees the way Akira squirms his way through polite conversations, desperate for other people to like him.

Akira sees him, too. For all that Goro tries to remain emotionally distant, he has a knack for sensing other people’s distress and cutting it short. He's prickly and wounded, but he's not unkind.

And sometimes, when they lock eyes, Akira knows that Goro is looking through him, knows because he can see through Goro as well, and they both stare, seeing each other and themselves, and it's—

“I can't lose him, Ryuji,” Akira says, finally. “I can't.”

Ryuji sighs. The TV falls into sleep mode, game long forgotten. “I guess I should go. You should... you should talk to him. You never know, you know?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Ryuji gets up, grabbing his coat, looking between the two of them. “Well, um. I'll see you later, dude.” And then Ryuji leaves, and they're alone.

Akira gets up and creeps towards Goro, unable to bear the distance between them. “I wish I could talk to you,” he whispers, eyes tracing the contour of Goro’s slack face. He reaches out to brush his fingers against the familiar fabric of the hoodie. He can't help but brush Akechi’s cheek, too.

He jerks his hand away, guilt falling over his head like a bucket of ice.

I’ll just... move him to the bed. Akira pushes up his sleeves. He's going to wake up with a crick in his neck, otherwise.

Akira slips his arm into the bend of Goro’s knees. He slips his other arm behind Goro’s shoulders, gripping his chest. Please don't wake up.

He moves as slowly as he can. It's difficult—Goro Akechi is a grown man, after all. But it's not far to the bed, and thanks to Ryuji, Akira works out all the time. When he reaches the bed, he lays Goro down on top of the duvet, reluctant to let him go.

Goro makes a few soft noises, but doesn't wake, curling into Akira’s sheets with the hoodie still wrapped around his shoulders. It's almost like he's mine, Akira thinks, brushing Goro’s hair out of disarray.

Akira wants to curl up in bed with him, wants to hold him, sleep with him, wake up with him. I should talk to him. He might not be in love with me, but I... I'd give him anything, at any pace he wanted.

Akira looks at his watch. It's late, but not too late. He can give Goro twenty or thirty more minutes.

He wants to sit down in bed and stroke Goro’s hair; he doesn't. Instead, he goes back over to the couch, plopping onto the cushions with a sigh. Goro snuffles in his sleep, rubbing his cheek against the bed, face half-concealed by Akira’s jacket. Akira watches and yearns.

Twenty minutes later, Akechi is still asleep, puddled on the duvet, curled in on himself like a cat. Deep breaths shift the jacket up and down, a movement so slow as to be almost imperceptible. Akira walks over, pressing a firm palm into Akechi’s shoulder, shaking him. Akechi’s brow curls inwards with his body, resistant. Akira shakes him again. He mumbles, pressing his face into the duvet.

“Goro,” Akira murmurs, “wake up.” Goro squints one eye open, groaning.

“No.”

Akira chuckles. “Yes,” he says. “You have class tomorrow. If you're going to sleep here, you should at least put on something more comfortable.”

Goro opens his eyes, wakefulness creeping back into his figure, limbs stiffening and unfurling. “Oh. I didn't... I didn't mean to fall asleep. Is everyone else gone?”

“Yeah. Did you want to stay? I don't mind. I'll sleep on the couch.”

Goro snorts. “Neither of us is going to let the other sleep on the couch, Kurusu. Let's skip the theatrical battle of politeness, shall we?”

“Touché. So, is that a yes?”

“That's a yes,” Goro sighs, sitting up, jacket hanging off of one shoulder. “I'm exhausted. I'm sorry for falling asleep.” He looks around, then furrows his brow. “Wait, how did I get in your bed? I was on the recliner.”

Akira smirks. “Don't worry about it,” he says, reaching out to ruffle Goro’s hair. It's as soft as ever, but Akira doesn't allow his hand to linger—instead, he goes to rifle through his dresser again. Goro sputters behind him, flustered and indignant.

“Did you—that's—I'm an adult.”

“I didn't want you to wake up with a crick in your neck,” Akira says, pulling out a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He tosses them onto the bed. “Go get changed. We can share the bed, it's big enough.”

Goro blushes, unable to meet Akira’s eyes. “Of course,” he whispers, grabbing the clothes. “Right. That's... fine, I suppose. I'll be right back.” He scurries away to the bathroom, stiff-backed and shifty-eyed, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.

Does he know? Akira’s heart kicks around in his chest—a familiar sensation, these days. Shit, I didn't even know until a week ago, not really. I don't want him to be uncomfortable. Maybe I should offer to sleep on the couch again. No, wait, he'd never let me...

While his mind races, Akira shucks off his jeans and shimmies into his sweatpants. Not his favorite pair, of course. (He gave those to Akechi.)

He turns off every light except for the lamp at his bedside, crawls into bed, and waits, heart pounding, chest aching, hands sweating. After a long moment, the bathroom door clicks open. Akechi steps out, bare feet padding against the carpet. Akira’s heart stutters, chokes and freezes.

The button up had been torture. The jacket had almost been too painful to bear. But they were nothing, nothing compared to this. Goro draped from head to toe in Akira's softest clothing, Goro with bare feet and swept back hair, Goro flushed and pretty in the lamplight.

“Thanks for the clothes,” he says, walking towards the bed. Akira swallows.

“Y-yeah. Anytime, man.”

Goro sits on the bed; soft, tentative, and uncertain. Akira encourages him by slipping under the blanket. Goro follows suit. They sit for a long moment.

“Oh, uh. I still have your shirt,” Akira says. “From last week. It's in my top drawer, it's clean.”

“Ah, yes, thank you. I'll get it on my way out. I should sleep now, though... I have to get up early.”

“Of course. Good night, Akechi.”

“Good night.”

Akira clicks out the lamp. In an instant, darkness falls on top of them, heavy and excessive. Under these cumbersome shadows, Goro feels both too close and too far away, a paradox of intimacy. Akira squirms and sighs and wishes he could turn the light back on.

Unable to do so, Akira shuffles to the edge of the bed, clinging to it, desperate to put distance between the two of them. It's no use. He can still feel Goro’s warmth, can hear the languid hissing of his drowsy breath. Akira aches to move closer; he inches further away.

Akira clutches the sheets. He pretends that he's clutching the soft t-shirt on Goro’s chest, pretends to feel the rise and fall of his lungs. Unsatisfied, he drifts into an erratic, fitful sleep.

By the time Akira wakes, Goro is gone; so are Akira’s clothes.

That's strange, Akira thinks, still drowsy. Did he wear them out? I didn't think he'd be caught dead in sweatpants... He checks his top drawer—Goro remembered to take his shirt too, at least.

Akira doesn't have anywhere to be for a few hours, so he lumbers back to the bed, falling onto it without grace. His face lands on Goro’s pillow. He nuzzles his nose into the fabric. Smells like him...

He holds the duvet against his chest, presses his lips into the pillow. With hazy fantasies of closeness, he breathes deep, drinking in Goro’s scent until his brain filters it as mere background stimuli. He's too tired to feel embarrassed, too tired to care.

Once again, he drifts off.

The passing days cannot ease the fire in Akira’s chest. If anything, it glows brighter, leaving him restless. In bed, he tosses and turns; out of it, he paces and sighs. Eventually, he grabs his headphones and goes out to Inokashira Park, eager to walk off this fidgety condition. He wanders through without aim, brisk on his feet, smiling at strangers—a reflex drilled into him by years of small-town living. Music thrums against his ears, drowning out the soft, ambient sounds of the outdoors. Akira can't sit still on the best of days, but things have been worse since he discovered his... his...

He hesitates to call it a crush, the term too diminutive for his liking. Years ago, when they'd first met, Akira would spend his days prodding and teasing the other boy to the brink of homicide. That was a crush. Akira hadn't let himself think about it. Now that he is letting himself think about it, it's all he thinks about.

He thinks about Goro aiming darts and guiding pool cues, competent and competitive. He thinks about the way Goro’s mouth curls into a disgusted snarl in the face of injustice. The images come to him one after another—Goro huffing at one of Akira’s jokes, Goro screaming with a PlayStation controller in his hands, Goro’s eyes lighting up at Futaba’s newest Featherman figure, Goro-

Goro standing in the park with his bike, leaning against a tree, eyes fixed on his phone while he sips from the mouth of a water bottle.

Akira rips his headphones out and runs over.

“Akechi!”

Goro looks up, eyes widening like the proverbial deer, fingers digging into the plastic of his bottle. “Ah,” he says. “Hello, Kurusu-kun! I wasn't expecting to see you here.” The words drip with saccharine politeness. He’s hiding something. What is he hiding?

“I'm just going for a walk.” Akira looks the other man up and down. He's sweatier than usual gets when he cycles, especially considering the temperature. It's warmer than days previous, but not hot. “Damn, how far did you cycle today? Most of the time, you don't even break a sweat.”

“Ah, yes,” Goro looks down at himself with shifty eyes. “I've been feeling tense. About school. You know how it is. I figured this would be a good way to blow off some steam.”

Akira looks at him again. It's hard not to; Goro Akechi looks devastating in the aftermath of exercise. He always has. Skin-tight pants, sleek shoes, hair swept back in a ponytail, skin damp with sweat. He has a small collection of zip-up cycling jerseys as well, although today... today he's... wait a second, Akira thinks, heart quivering.

“Is that my shirt?”

Goro’s cheeks, already pink-tinged from exercise, flush scarlet.

Akira stares at the fabric where it's sweat-stained and plastered against Goro’s collarbone. That's my shirt. That's my hoodie, too. Both articles err on the side of being too large for Goro’s slender frame. The hoodie slouches down over one shoulder, and the shirt hangs lower than it's meant to. 

Goro looks down at the ground as though it might swallow him up.

“Y-yes. I'm so sorry about that, I didn't have any clean jerseys, and I thought... I thought, well, I'll need to clean these before I give them back regardless, although they weren't dirty, all I did was sleep in them and I—”

“Goro,” Akira laughs. “It's okay, I don't mind.” It’s more than okay.

“I'll give them back as soon as I wash them, I promise. The sweatpants, too.” Goro squares his shoulders, collecting himself, plastering a vacant smile on his face. It might be enough to convince him if Akira didn't know him so well. I know you're still embarrassed, Akechi. Akira smirks. You can't hide like that. Not from me.

Why he's so embarrassed, Akira can't say. Wearing another person’s clothes can carry certain insinuations, but isn't uncommon by itself. Akira loans and borrows t-shirts all the time.

“Dude, seriously, it's fine,” Akira soothes. “I lend clothes all the time. I'm pretty sure I loaned Ann that exact shirt, once.” Not that she looked nearly as hot in it, he doesn't say.

“Ah.” Goro’s eye twitches, but he keeps smiling. “Of course. That makes me feel much better. Thank you, Akira.”

“Uh, I'm glad,” Akira says, not believing the other man, but unwilling to press the issue. “Although I have to say, you're winning.”

“Hm?”

“Two shirts, a hoodie and a pair of pants—all in one week. At this rate, I'll end up with nothing. You'll have stolen it all.”

The blatant teasing unfurls Goro’s brow and relaxes his shoulders. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips and he rolls his eyes, taking a sip of water. “Oh, yes, Kurusu-kun. It’s all part of my sinister plan.”

“Goro, come on,” Akira coos, putting a hand to his chest. “If you wanted to see me without my clothes on, all you had to do was ask.”

Akira meant it as banter. They always joke like that, after all. It's their thing. Pet names dripping with sarcasm, yelling ‘honey, I'm home’ over the threshold of Leblanc, jokes about co-parenting the Phantom Thieves.

This time, with Akira’s shirt still clinging to the skin below Goro’s damp collarbone, the ‘joke’ slips out like a confession, an offer, a proposition.

“You're ridiculous.” Goro scowls, blushing. He didn't notice, Akira thinks, the weight falling off of his chest.

“You know you love me.” Akira smiles, wishing it were true. “Anyway, I was just gonna go home and play video games after this. Wanna join me?”

Akira doesn't want Goro to leave, doesn't want to stop looking at him. His chest feels warm, his mouth dry.

“Sure. Would you mind if I borrowed your shower, though? I'm... well, I'm in a bit of a state.”

A bit of a state. Akira gulps, trying not to think too hard about Goro’s sweaty, panting, flushed body. He tries very hard not to think about that body doing anything. To anyone else. To Akira.

“I don't mind at all.” Akira shrugs, gesturing to the upper half of Goro’s outfit. “After all, what’s mine is yours.”

Goro swats at his shoulder. Akira laughs while his heart thrashes around his chest, aching to lean into the touch.

They banter all the way back to LeBlanc, prodding and teasing each other. By the time Goro parks his bike in the usual spot, it’s well into the afternoon, almost nightfall.

Akira pushes his way into the café, smiling at something Goro says. Sojiro is there, wiping the counter with an old rag, and when he sees who it is, his sharp eyes soften.

“Well, you two sure are chipper,” he says, smiling. His eyes flick down Goro's body, and the smile morphs into a smirk. “Ah. Nice shirt, Akechi.”

“Sojiro,” Akira warns, locking eyes with the nosy, meddling, perceptive old man.

“Thank you, Sojiro-san. Akira was nice enough to lend it to me.”

“Mhm, I'm sure he was.” Akira glares at him; his smile only widens.

“Well, you kids have fun,” he says. “I'll be closing early tonight, it's been slow all day. Lock the door when Akechi leaves, got it?”

“Yeah, sure! Bye, Sojiro!” Akira rushes to the stairs, eager to get away. Of course Sojiro knows. Nosy bastard.

Flushed but silent, Goro follows him up the stairs and into the attic.

The door clicks shut behind them, and they're alone, alone like they've been thousands of times before. Akira’s heart tosses those memories, embraces amnesia, and pounds as though it were the very first.

“Just a second,” Akira says. He goes to grab a change of clothes—a t-shirt, some boxers, and his second favorite pair of sweatpants.

“Here. Take these. So you don't have to wear dirty clothes after a shower.” Goro looks at the clothes like they've grown teeth.

“Yes, I would appreciate that,” he says, taking the bundle into tentative arms. “I promise I'm not doing this on purpose.”

I wish you were, Akira doesn’t say, biting his tongue. “It really is fine, Goro. No worries. There're towels in the washroom, under the sink.”

“Thanks,” Goro says. They stare at each other; Akira swallows. He knows he's being obvious—the way he can't stop staring, lips parted, cheeks warm. Part of him hopes the other man will do something about it, even if that ‘something’ amounts to putting him out of his misery with a swift rejection. “I'll... be right back, then.”

Goro locks himself away in the bathroom. Akira moves to the couch, grabbing fistfuls of hair in his hands, knocking his glasses askew. He falls onto the cushions with a sigh.

“Fuck,” he hisses, daring to do so out loud. In the other room, the shower turns on, rumbling through the walls.

Goro Akechi stood in that park with Akira’s clothes wrapped around him, ill-fitting and askew as though stolen from a lover. And now... now he's in Akira’s home, showering, getting comfortable.

Akira delights in making Akechi comfortable, delights in smoothing the wrinkles around his eyes. He loves to draw tension from Akechi’s shoulders with jokes, loves to distract him from his pain with littler, gentler torments.

Akira used to wonder why no-one else interested him. He wondered why the first dates led nowhere, even though he knew he liked men and women and delighted in flirting with them.

They were alright, but they weren't Akechi.

When he admitted to himself that he loved Akechi, he lit himself on fire. Before, he was standing in a pool of gasoline, match already lit; he just hadn't dropped it yet. Now he's aflame. He understands passion. Never has the sight of someone else's collarbone looked so enticing, never has sweat-slick skin seemed sexy instead of repulsive, never has—

The door clicks open. Akira dumps ice over his thoughts. He looks up at Akechi, and the ice sizzles away into steam.

Goro stands in the threshold with his damp hair swept back into a ponytail, flushed from the shower, skin adorned by droplets. Akira’s sweatpants hang low on his hips, a pair of red boxers peeking out—shit, those are mine too, Akira realizes, having given them away without thinking. Goro clutches Akira’s folded shirt against his bare chest.

“You’re not wearing a shirt.” Akira regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, pressing his lips shut.

Goro tilts his head, assessing him. “I didn't want my hair to get the collar wet. You don't have a blow dryer.”

Unable to restrain himself, Akira stares at Goro’s chest. Two rosy, pert nipples stare back. Akira imagines licking them. He wonders how they'd feel under his tongue. Would they be sensitive? Soft?

Akira’s pants feel tight.

“I’m gonna take a shower too,” he says, leaping up off of the couch and rushing to the door of the washroom. Goro hasn't moved from the threshold. Akira sees the way his mind churns, prays that he isn't putting any pieces together. “I'll be done in a minute. You can, um, pull up a game or pick out a movie or something.”

Goro steps aside. Akira slips past him, careful not to let their bodies touch, but there's no use. Akira can feel his warmth anyway, the phantom heat of a too-near body.

Akira shuts the door, leaning against it, blood rushing south. He bites his lip, cock straining against the denim of his jeans. Shit. A hand strokes the outline of his half-formed erection. I shouldn't, he thinks, biting his lip. The bulge in his jeans begs to differ, heavy and obvious.

I could take a cold shower, he reasons, readjusting himself to ease his discomfort. The touch only makes things worse. That might chase the thoughts away, calm me down.

He shucks off his jeans and his boxers in one go. His cock springs out, bouncing against his belly, a bead of pre-cum forming at the tip. Unable to resist, he reaches down and swipes it away, skin igniting where he touches it. Fingers find their familiar purchase, stroking without permission. Akira leans his head back, biting his lip, eyes screwed shut.

Images flood his mind—Akechi standing in Akira's clothes, skin damp and warm, tugging at the elastic of the sweatpants, pulling them down. He imagines Akechi’s flushed, hard cock, leaking pre-cum all over Akira’s boxers. His own calloused thumb teases his slit. In its place, Akira imagines a tongue.

Akira drops his cock like it’s on fire. He yanks his shirt over his head and rushes to the shower. Once again, he contemplates setting the water to cold. Between his legs, his cock contemplates Goro Akechi, half-naked in the other room, wearing Akira’s boxers.

Akira sets the water to scalding.

Careful not to waste time, he jumps under the stream and starts fisting his cock. His face presses into the warm ceramic wall, stifling a whimper.

Akira rarely thinks about anything when he jacks off. At least, not anything in particular. Occasionally, he ponders a lewd fantasy; sometimes, he watches porn. Most of the time, though, his mind flits from vague impression to vague impression. An ass bouncing on a cock, tongues tangled between mouths, tits fondled, nipples sucked, cocks licked.

Sometimes, not that Akira has ever, ever admitted it, his mind offers images of Goro Akechi. Goro bent over, gazing backwards with a coy smirk. His legs spread wide, dexterous fingers teasing his asshole. Goro fully clothed, rubbing an obvious erection; Goro undressed, rubbing an even more obvious erection.

Akira tugs at his cock, hurtling towards orgasm. Still, his body aches for more. Those impressions won't be enough this time. This time, he's going to be greedy. He lets himself imagine the forbidden, lets himself cross the yet uncrossed line.

One hand pressed against his mouth, he imagines what he’d do to Goro Akechi.

I’d take such good care of him. In his mind, he's stroking Goro’s skin, featherlight and teasing. I’d learn about his body, what makes him feel good. I'd give it to him. Another image—Goro in Akira’s shirt, fabric hiked up so Akira can bury his face in his ass, licking his hole, searching for the rhythm that will make the other man writhe. I want to fuck him. God, I want to fuck him. Goro pressed into the mattress, head tossing. He'd try to hold back, but Akira wouldn't let him. Akira would find the angle that makes him scream.

Akira imagines Goro groaning on his cock, eager—probably bossy, too. ‘You can do better than that, Kurusu. Come on, harder.’ Akira imagines it again. This time, Goro is wearing Akira’s favorite hoodie, fabric falling off of his shoulders, hands balled into fists inside the sleeves.

With that, he bites his knuckle, and his cum splatters against the shower wall.

Heartbeat slowing, he rinses it away. His cock twitches and sags in relief. For a moment, he stares at nothing, his mind blank.

The shame doesn't hit him all at once. It trickles down his spine, slow at first, almost gentle. It pools in his belly until he’s nauseous and trembling, shower forgotten.

How am I supposed to go back out there, now? Shit.

He catches some water in his hands, throwing it onto his face, rubbing his skin. With mechanic precision, he finishes his shower. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash. When he shuts off the water, he feels too cold. He towels off, and it helps.

He realizes he forgot his own change of clothes. Suppressing a groan, he wraps his towel around his waist. On his way out of the shower, he assesses himself in the mirror. He doesn't look like a guilty, horny madman. Akira pulls the towel up further, clings it tight against his body, and opens the door.

Goro looks up at him, and then looks away, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. “You forgot to grab a change of clothes, didn't you?”

“Of course not,” Akira says, walking to his dresser. “I am a paragon of mindfulness.”

“Truly,” Goro drawls. Clothes in hand, Akira dares to glance over. Goro is not looking at him. He's staring at his phone, a lingering blush the only hint that it has affected him.

Akira realizes that he'd been half hoping for a reaction, half hoping that Goro might slip up and do something silly like stare at his naked chest. You're pathetic. He swallows his disappointment.

He scurries back out of the room, dresses, and re-enters. Goro already has something pulled up on the PlayStation, two controllers set out in front of him.

“I want to murder something,” he says, prim as ever. He's wearing a shirt again, which is both a relief and a disappointment. “You in?”

“Yeah, of course.” Akira sits down, keeping a careful distance between them. “Whatever you want.”

Goro looks at him with a raised eyebrow, and Akira realizes that he'd said the words a bit too sincerely.

“Are you okay?” Goro appears genuine in his concern, brow creased. Akira resists the urge to reach out and smooth the crease with his thumb.

“Yeah! Sorry.” Akira grabs his controller with a smile. “Let's murder.”

Goro Akechi plays video games with a terrifying combination of frothing rabidity and laser-sharp focus.

“Hah! If you didn't want my solo ult, you shouldn't have pissed me off,” Goro hisses, hunched over his controller with a scowl. “Shit, they’re wide open. Get in there, Joker. Wait! Oh, for fuck’s sake. I'm going to kill that Junkrat in real life.”

After flitting through Akira’s game catalog for a while, they’ve settled into Overwatch, although neither of them have played in years. Akechi, for obvious reasons, is not allowed a microphone.

“Behind you,” Akira says, grinning. It's hard to focus on the game with Akechi beside him, hair wild and teeth bared.

“Shit! Thanks—wait, fuck! Why is our healer switching—”

They play through the last few hours of sunlight, enjoying each other’s company. Akira can almost pretend that he didn't jack off to the thought of railing the other man mere hours ago.

Unfortunately, every few minutes, he glances over at Akechi and remembers. Sometimes, it makes him blush. His lips must be scarlet, too, from how much he's gnawed at them.

“Alright,” Goro says after a while. The sun left a few minutes ago, and Sojiro locked up when it did. “I've had quite enough. This game is a nightmare.”

“Okay. Do you wanna watch something? We can watch something. Or, uh. Order food?”

Goro looks at him, head tilted, eyes squinted like he's trying to solve a puzzle. Akira finds the expression endearing when it's not pointed at him. “Are you sure you're okay, Akira?”

“Of course! Why do you ask?”

“Your behavior has been strange.” Goro leans back. Without the game, Akira no longer has any excuse not to look at him, so he does, begging his eyes not to stray or linger where they shouldn't.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Akira says. He gulps. The moment stretches out like a rubber band, tense and ready to snap. Goro hums, leaning his head back. Akira’s eyes fall to gaze at the exposed neck, and Goro smirks. Oh shit, Akira thinks, heart pounding.

“You know what? We should watch something,” Goro says. “Any preferences?”

“No.”

Goro grabs the remote, leaning back against the armrest of the couch with his trademark androgynous grace—his stance wide and sprawling, yet poised, delicate, pretty.

Akira's clothes soften the effect. His eyes glue themselves to the spot where the collar of Akira’s shirt meets Goro’s smooth collarbone. Goro catches him staring and grins, shark-like.

He knows. Akira’s eyes widen. But he's... is he... flirting? Maybe… teasing?

“I'll turn on Kitagawa’s favorite film.” Goro clicks around on the remote. Akira doesn't look at the screen. “What was it called again? ‘Cry for a Storm?’”

“‘Weep for a Storm,’” Akira remembers. Goro nods, typing in the words. “You don't like that movie. Nobody likes that movie.”

“Kitagawa-kun does.”

“Yeah, because he's... he’s Yusuke. He doesn't give a shit about the plot, he just likes it because it looks ‘aesthetically pleasing’.”

“So? He isn't wrong. Anyway, you said we could watch whatever I want, and I'm in the mood for this. Hit the lights, would you?”

With a sigh, Akira gets up and turns off the lights. Goro presses play, twirling his ponytail between nimble fingers. He leans back further, Akira’s shirt riding up to expose a dangerous strip of flesh. Akira swallows, settling on the couch as far away from Goro as possible, yet still too close for comfort. Akira trains his eyes on the screen, trying to focus.

It's impossible. Nothing about this movie interests Akira. The only thing interesting about this situation is Goro, lounging mere feet away, clean and barefoot and dressed in Akira’s clothes. Akira begs his eyes not to stray, body rigid with effort.

Beside him, Goro shifts a few inches closer. And then a few more inches. A few more. In front of him, an impressive bit of camera work turns a cityscape into a masterpiece. “It's, um,” Akira says. “It's pretty cool to look at.”

“Yes, quite.” Goro hums, thoughtful — they're close enough now that their thighs are touching, the contact burning Akira through his sweatpants. “Perhaps Yusuke is on to something.”

“Mmph,” Akira replies. Beside him, Goro shifts and stretches, his body heat getting closer, warmer—no, hotter. Akira tugs at the collar of his t-shirt, worried he may sweat.

Akira no longer feels the passage of time. Goro’s presence inundates his mind and weighs down his body. What is he doing? He must know. Akira’s heart, ever the tortured prisoner, pounds against its cage. I wonder...

Goro shifts in closer, pressing the sides of their bodies together. Akira lifts his arm, resting it on the sofa behind Goro, suggestive without quite touching him. Goro’s breath hitches. Out of the corner of his eye, Akira sees him blush.

“Smooth,” Goro whispers, daring to put their game out in the open. Akira chuckles, unwilling to speak, proud to have gained the upper hand. Goro answers by grabbing Akira’s arm and dragging it down to cradle his shoulders, leaning into the crook of Akira’s body, head pressed against the other man’s shoulder.

Akira stops breathing. Goro hums against him, shifting, nuzzling against Akira’s body.

On the screen, a blackbird flies in slow motion, hazy against a morning sky. Goro isn't looking at the screen at all, eyes locked on Akira.

Finally, they make eye contact, looking at each other and into each other. Akira swallows, mouth dry.

“You don't really care about this movie, do you?”

“Hm? I don't know what you're talking about.” Goro swings one leg over Akira’s lap, sprawling his body in a way that is nothing short of wanton. He reaches over to the remote and turns the volume all the way down to silent.

Akira’s tenuous grasp on calmness snaps, and he moves—lightning fast, without thinking. Goro moves too, and now, somehow, he's beneath Akira, hair fanned out on the sofa, Akira’s arms pinned on either side of his head.

“Wow,” Goro whispers, a wild grin stretching his flushed face, “I should have borrowed your clothes years ago, Kurusu.”

“Mmph,” Akira replies. It’s not just the clothes, Goro, he wants to say. It’s you, it’s always been you. “You're... a menace.”

“I aim for nothing less,” Goro says, reaching up to stroke Akira’s neck. Akira shivers. “But you never stop surprising me, Akira. Few people can do that.”

Akira moves one arm to toy with the hem of Goro’s shirt—my shirt, he reminds himself, fingertips brushing against Goro’s abdomen. Goro wriggles around.

“I should keep them,” Goro says, looking down at his clothes. “I enjoy wearing them, you know. When I do, you look at me like you might eat me. It's always nice to get a rise out of the unflappable Akira Kurusu.”

Akira blushes. He didn't realize he'd been so obvious; he doesn't know what to say. “Goro, fuck. I'm sorry, I just...” Akira tightens his grip on the hem of the shirt, gazing down into Goro’s wide, dilated eyes.

“I will use these powers for evil,” Goro jokes, reaching a leg up to encircle Akira’s hips and pull them down, down so that their cocks, hard and aching in their sweatpants, rub up against each other. Akira gasps, readjusting his body to chase the feeling.

“Menace,” Akira hisses, hips gyrating on instinct. He looks down at Goro’s lips—pink, plump, parted. “Can I kiss you?”

Goro blushes deeper, eyes widening. “We’re humping each other and you ask permission to kiss me?”

“Yes,” Akira says, moving in closer, his free hand moving to cradle the other man’s cheek. Their lips are inches away, now. “Please?”

“Yes, sure, of course you-”

Akira cuts him off by bringing their lips together.

For a moment, they are tentative, still. Goro moves first, sliding their parted lips against each other. Akira moves with him, stroking a thumb over his cheek, hips shifting. They relax, melting into each other's bodies. It's slow, delicious, soft, perfect. Akira wants to stay here forever. I love you, he doesn’t say, smiling.

Then, Goro bites Akira’s bottom lip and sucks it between his teeth, rolling his hips up in a smooth motion. A soft moan punches its way out of Akira’s lips. Goro chuckles, licking into his mouth.

Akira had never understood the erotic appeal of kissing before this, before Goro, who does things with his tongue that should be illegal. Goro reaches up to wrap his fingers through Akira's hair. Heat pools in Akira’s groin, and he loses himself to it.

Goro's kiss becomes aggressive, erratic. Goro bites and sucks and fucks Akira’s mouth with his tongue, body desperate and squirming. On top of him, Akira remains gentle, too drunk in love to match the ferocity.

Eventually, they break apart, panting against each other. Akira leans back and sits, too shaky to support his weight any longer. Heart full, he sinks into the couch and laughs, shaking his head. This is real. This is happening. Goro sits up, frowning.

“What's so funny?”

“Nothing. I'm just happy.” Akira strokes Goro’s thigh, smiling at him.

“Huh. You know, when I imagined this, I didn't think you'd be—well, I don't know. Never mind.”

“Oh? But you have imagined it.”

Goro swats at his shoulder. Unable to resist, Akira snatches the hand and brings it up to his lips. Goro’s eyes widen, his jaw slackens, and Akira watches him, drinking in every detail of the shifting expression. Eyes still locked together, Akira presses his lips into Goro’s open palm.

“You're unbelievable,” Goro hisses as Akira’s teeth drag against his wrist. Akira kisses, bites, and sucks, but he wants more, he wants everything.

“I’ve just decided,” Akira says between kisses. “I want my shirt back.”

Goro blinks. “I'm sorry. I can—”

“No.” Akira reaches forward to play with the fabric on Goro’s waist, suggestive. “Goro… I want my shirt back.” He slips underneath the hem, pressing his hand against the soft plane of Goro’s abdomen. Goro gasps.

“Do you?” Goro leans back against the cushions, eyes glimmering, fingers grabbing the hem of the shirt. He teases it upward, exposing his navel—and drops it again, biting his lip.

“Goro,” Akira whines, reaching forward to stroke the other man’s thigh.

Goro tugs the shirt upwards again, exposing the smooth, masculine line of his waist. Between his legs, an obvious bulge presses against his sweatpants. He keeps going, tugging the shirt up slowly until the hem teases his rib cage—and drops it again.

With a coy smile, he starts the process over, lifting the fabric high enough to pinch and tug his nipples. Akira thinks about leaning forward and biting them; but before he can do anything, the fabric drops.

Akira’s hand clenches Goro’s leg. I’m going to die here, he thinks, cock aching between his legs. “Goro, please.”

“Hm,” Goro hums, mocking Akira with faux thoughtfulness. “Well, since you asked so nicely.” Goro pulls at the collar of the shirt, slipping it over his head. He balls it up and throws it at Akira’s chest, hard. Akira catches it, blush creeping up his cheeks.

“There. You have your shirt back, Kurusu.”

They stare at each other for a moment. Goro looks sex-addled and wild—flushed skin, kiss-bitten lips, lust-blown pupils. He rubs his bare chest with one hand, still putting on a show.

Akira has never been this turned on in his life.

“You know…” Akira’s hand snakes up and down Goro’s inner thigh, teasing him. “The sweatpants are mine, too. You’ll have to give those back, as well.”

“Yes, sir,” Goro says — tone disparaging, but the words do something to Akira’s dick, regardless. That ‘something’ must show on his face, because Goro notices, smirking. “Oh? You like that, don’t you?”

“Goro,” Akira warns. Two can play at that game, he thinks. “Be a good boy and take off the sweatpants.”

Goro’s smirk collapses, lust-blown eyes widening. He slips his thumbs into the sweatpants, tugging them down to reveal the startling red waistband of Akira’s boxers. “Yes, sir,” he says again, biting his lip.

Akira reaches up to help, tugging the fabric down over the bulge of Goro’s erection, down over his smooth upper thighs, down over his knees and shins and ankles. Akira tosses the sweatpants on the ground and stares, mouth parted.

“Like what you see?” Goro sounds cocky, but Akira sees the way his shoulders tense, sees that the smirk is too shallow.

Akira leans in to press a kiss to the inside of his knee, reverent and somehow chaste. “Yes,” he whispers. “Always.”

He wants Goro to relax, to feel safe, cherished, adored; Goro stiffens further, his legs twitching.

“There’s no need for all this, you know. This foreplay. We can cut to the chase.”

Akira laughs, nipping the flesh of Goro’s inner thigh with his teeth.

“What makes you think I want to ‘cut to the chase’? I’m having the time of my life. Unless… you aren’t enjoying it?”

“Oh yes Kurusu, you caught me,” Goro mocks, “I’m miserable. The subject of half of my teenage sex fantasies just bit my inner thigh. I am experiencing unimaginable pain.”

“You…” Akira pauses. “Sex fantasies? Really?”

Goro pulls a face, squirming away. “Don’t act so surprised. Everyone knew, I was so pathetic about it. What, did you—” Goro stops. “Did you really not know?”

“No. I didn’t. I mean, sometimes you looked at me, and I’d think, maybe… but it was never worth risking you. If I was wrong, and you got mad.”

“Wait, so you—you too?”

“Yeah.” Akira crawls across the couch, leans across Goro’s body, presses a kiss against his cheek. “Me too. I tried to ignore it, but… fuck, the clothes.”

“I noticed, you fiend. It’s not a kink I expected from you, to be honest.”

“It’s not even a kink,” Akira admits, reaching his hand up to cup Goro’s cheek. “I mean, yeah, you’re super hot. I almost dropped dead when I saw you in the park, earlier. But… that’s not it. It’s just, when you walk around in my clothes, it’s like you’re—"

Goro’s brow furrows. “It’s like I’m what?”

“It’s like you’re mine.”

They both stop breathing. The admission hangs in the air, taunting Akira— he can’t take it back, not now. Unable to look Goro in the eye, he allows his head to droop, forehead resting against the other man’s shoulder.

“Oh.” Goro falls silent.

“I’m sorry, Goro.” The words force their way out of Akira’s tight throat, hoarse and quiet. “It’s okay. I don’t expect you to feel the same.”

“And how do you feel, exactly?”

Akira chuckles a humorless chuckle, wrapping his arm around Goro’s waist. He lifts his head, nose tracing against Goro’s skin, and presses a soft, worshipful kiss against his collarbone.

“I’m in love with you.” The words are both a relief and an injury, healing him as they cut him open.

“Akira.” Goro sounds like he might cry, or scream, or both. Akira finally leans back, dares to look at Goro Akechi. He’s still flushed and kiss-bitten and wrecked—but he looks softer, younger, more vulnerable. He doesn’t look angry at all. “Fuck, Akira.”

“Yeah?”

“Kiss me again.”

Akira’s heart jolts, kicks back into overdrive. “Anything for you, my prince,” he jokes, leaning in. “Anything at all.”

Goro rolls his eyes as Akira presses their lips together, soft and sweet, more affectionate than heated. He pours his love into the kiss, tries to show Goro, now that he’s told him. This time, his tongue is gentle, playful, exploratory. He smiles into the kiss, laughs into it.

Without warning, Goro pushes him back, crawling on top of him. Akira takes it in stride, holding Goro’s waist to support him. The kiss gets faster, wilder—it doesn’t take long for the heat to return, for Goro to start moaning.

In spite of the heat and the sexual tension, Goro’s shoulders are relaxed, his muscles no longer twitchy. He’s melting into Akira’s body, giving in to the pleasure, relaxing into it. Akira holds him tighter and thinks—finally.

“You feel amazing,” Akira says, hands running up and down Goro’s naked back, hips rocking. He smirks. “So good for me,” he adds. Goro’s breath hitches.

“N-no.”

“No? Do you want me to stop?”

“Don’t stop. I just meant, I haven’t done anything praiseworthy.”

“You’re always good to me. Too good to me, even,” Akira says, kissing his cheek. “And now you’re here, naked, on top of me. I’m gonna get spoiled.”

“I’m not completely naked,” Goro points out. “Not yet, at least. Speaking of which…” Goro slips his hand under Akira’s shirt, pushing upwards, fingers caressing skin. “I’d like to even out the playing field, if you don’t mind.”

Way to change the subject, Akira thinks, resisting the urge to shake his head. Still, fair point. He pulls Goro’s legs apart, prompting him to lean back into a straddle. Akira pushes forward to meet him, tugging his shirt off in one swift motion, tossing it aside. He wraps his arms around Goro’s body, pressing their naked chests together. Goro sighs, angling back for another kiss; Akira chuckles into his mouth.

“This position is… suggestive.” Akira smirks, rocking up into the cleft of Goro’s ass. Goro jolts, shivers, and rocks back.

“Akira,” Goro moans—and oh, I could get used to that, Akira thinks, holding Goro’s hips as they grind against each other.

“Goro.” Akira presses his nose into the nape of the other man’s neck. He inhales, smelling soap, sweat, and skin. Smelling Goro. He opens his mouth to taste. Satisfied, he sucks the flesh between his teeth.

“You shouldn’t leave any marks,” Goro warns, “I have classes.”

“Maybe I want them to see. You could wear one of my shirts, too, just to drive home the point. After all, you have plenty.”

“I have one, if you don’t count the two I’ve worn today.”

Akira hums, smiling against Goro’s shoulder. “The button up. I was surprised you kept it for so long. What, you couldn’t bear to part with it?”

It’s meant as a joke, but Goro freezes, limbs tightening. Akira’s heart stutters, and he backtracks—“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—"

“No,” Goro says, pulling back. “It’s alright.” He grips Akira’s face with one hand. A menacing smirk dances below his vulnerable eyes; it’s an expression at odds with itself. “Do you want the truth, Akira?”

“... Truth?”

“Why I kept your shirt.” Goro rocks his hips. “Part of it was the romantic sentiment, of course. It felt pathetic, at the time.”

“But I—"

“At the time,” Goro reiterates, smirk softening into a smile, eyes rolling. “Anyway, there was another reason.”

“... What?”

Goro leans in to whisper into Akira’s ear, breath hot.

“After my little club meeting, I went home and saw myself in the mirror, wearing your shirt. I couldn’t help myself. I jerked off. Right there in the bathroom mirror.”

Akira’s already sex-addled thought process skids to a halt.

“I felt terrible, of course. But the next day, I did it again. Not in the bathroom. In bed, naked, with your shirt draped around my shoulders.”

A needy whine slips past Akira’s lips. He bucks his hips, desperate for friction; Goro lifts up, moves away.

“Ah ah ah—I’m not done, yet. I jerked off in the hoodie, too. It wasn’t as clean, it smelled like you.”

“Fuck, Goro,” Akira moans, “you can’t just say shit like that. Warn a guy.”

“I didn’t think I’d be able to hand them back with a straight face, after all of that,” Goro admits, ignoring his pleas. “And I’m selfish. I wanted to keep wearing them; I liked wearing them. It made me feel like I was yours.”

Akira can’t take it anymore; he grabs onto Goro’s thighs, swings his legs over the edge of the couch, plants his feet. “Hold on to me,” he says.

Goro complies, wrapping his arms around the other man’s neck. Akira picks him up and carries him to the bed, tossing him onto the duvet. He grabs the rumpled up hoodie from on top of the dresser, presses it into his nose; it’s his hoodie, but it smells like Goro, now.

“Put it on.” Akira tosses the hoodie onto the bed. Goro looks up at him with wide eyes. Akira smirks, walks over to the bed, places his hands on Goro’s thighs. “What? Are you feeling shy?”

“No,” Goro snaps, sitting up and grabbing the hoodie. He slips into it, skin flushed crimson, squirming. “There. I did it.”

Akira leans forward on the bed, presses a kiss to Goro’s waist. His thumbs toy with the red boxers. “Good boy,” he says, slipping them down over the head of Goro’s cock. Goro whines.

He pulls the boxers down and off; then, he leans back to observe his handiwork.

Goro lies on the bed, flushed and sprawled out like a libertine; his cock drips, his chest heaves, his cheeks flush. Akira’s hoodie bundles around his arms and shoulders. He balls his hand inside one of the sleeves, bringing the concealed fist up to his face, a calculated display of demureness.

Akira growls, crawling on top of him, kissing him again.

“You’re amazing,” Akira says between kisses, slotting their hips together. “And sexy. I don’t know if I’m gonna survive this.” He sucks Goro’s bottom lip between his teeth, licking the flesh.

“Akira,” Goro moans, wrapping his naked legs around Akira’s waist. He shifts his hips, searching for the best angle, and grinds; Akira thrusts instinctively, hips jolting.

“I wanna feel you. Fuck, hold on.” Akira untangles himself and leans back, shuffles out of his sweatpants. In a flash, he’s back on top of Goro, slotting their naked cocks alongside each other.

They both gasp; Goro rewraps his legs, tighter this time. He wraps his clothed arms around Akira, too, hands still balled up in the sleeves.

“I can’t,” Goro grunts, hips rocking faster and faster. “I’m gonna—"

“Do it,” Akira begs. “Come for me, Goro.”

Goro does, cum splashing up onto their chests. Akira presses into him and follows him over the edge with one final thrust.

The dim room feels intimate, calm. In the background, their long forgotten movie plays on. Akira kisses Goro’s cheek, drunk on afterglow. He leans back, staring down at Goro’s cum-stained chest. “That was… shit.”

Goro sighs, sinking back into the bed. “You’re depraved. I’m depraved. We’re both going to hell.”

“At least we’re going together?”

Goro chuckles, covering his face with his hands. Akira grabs his wrists, pulling them away. “No, don’t hide. I wanna see your face.” Goro flushes.

“I think you’ve seen quite enough, Akira. Don’t be greedy.”

“Too late. I’ll never get enough. I’m insatiable, and you’re going to have to deal with it forever.”

They look at each other for a long time.

“I am, aren’t I?” Goro looks like he almost believes it. Akira smiles, kisses him.

“Come on, let’s get cleaned up.”

“Akira,” Goro whispers. They’re curled up in bed together, clean and half-dressed, legs tangled underneath the blankets. “Are you still awake?”

Akira hums, dragging Goro in closer, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“I wanted you to know. I love you, too. I’m sorry I didn’t say it earlier. I was a coward.”

Akira’s heart clenches. “You’re not a coward, and you don’t have to be sorry. Hell, I’m sorry.” Sorry for waiting so long, for resisting, for being so afraid of the inevitable, he doesn’t say. “I’m the one who sprung it on you.”

“No, don’t be sorry. You deserve to hear it. I always told myself that if I got the chance, I’d… shit, I don’t even know. You do things to my brain, Kurusu.”

Akira chuckles. “We’ve only been dating for a few hours and I’ve already broken you. That’s a shame. And to think, I was hoping to show you off tomorrow.”

“...Tomorrow’s Sunday. Oh, God.”

“Yup. Everyone’s meeting downstairs for breakfast.”

Goro shifts in his arms. “So we’re dating?” Akira smiles.

“If you’re okay with that.” Akira presses his face into the other man’s neck, hopeful. “I’m not interested in anyone else. Just you.”

Goro shifts closer to him, relaxes. “Of course I’m okay with it. I’m okay with anything, as long as I get to have you. I’m selfish, remember?”

“Ah, yes. You’re cruel, and I suffer terribly. Wait, if you’re okay with anything, can we get married? I want a spring wedding. Ryuji can be the flower boy.”

Goro snorts and reaches back to swat Akira’s shoulder; Akira chuckles. After a handful of whispers, they fall asleep—warm in each other’s arms, content.

Akira wipes the same stretch of counter for the fourth time in a row, daydreaming.

“Is Goro gonna be here today?” Ann looks up from her phone, a puzzled expression tugging her lips downward. “He wasn’t answering any texts last night.”

Resisting a smirk, Akira nods. “He’s sleeping in.” There’s a noise from upstairs—speak of the devil, Akira thinks, grinning.

It's rare to see Goro Akechi without a pristine sweater vest and a firm crease in his pants. It’s a shock to see him walk down the stairs of Leblanc in tight black jeans and a loose graphic tee, posture prim as ever.

“Good morning.”

Goro’s lips curl into a pleased smirk. For a moment, the room remains quiet.

Futaba breaks the silence. “Oh my god? Oh my god.”

“Yay! Can I be the best man?” Ann jumps up to hug Goro, of all things. Goro squirms under the attention, looking over at Akira.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” Akira grins; Goro glares at him.

“Congrats, guys.” Ryuji shoots Akira a knowing smile, giving him a big thumbs up. Akira grins back, ducking his head.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” Futaba says, throwing up her hands. “Thank fuck. Wait — I take that back. Akira’s gonna be insufferable about this.” Behind her, Makoto smirks, accepting several folded up bills from a giggling Haru.

Akira chuckles, locking eyes with Goro. For a moment, everything fades away. While the others titter and whisper, Goro and Akira share a short, wordless conversation with their eyes. Privacy amongst chaos; intimacy, affection, rapport.

“See? Look! They’re already eye-fucking!”

“Futaba!” Ann scowls, pouting her glossy lip. “Don’t be mean, they’re cute. I’ll be sure to let Shiho know about the upcoming double date.” She winks at Akira.

“...I would like some coffee,” Goro sighs, settling in at the bar. “I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”

Akira leans over the bar to kiss Goro’s cheek, sparking a blush. “Anything for you, my prince. Anything at all.”