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It's roughly three months after his second time coming back to life before Akechi works up the courage to find Ren. The whiplash of the transition between Maruki's frigid, sterile world and lying bruised in an alley in Nagatacho still stiffens his neck and he hasn't quite decided what he's going to say yet, but recently his chat client has been dripping a stream of messages--"Hi from Jazz Jin," "Morgana ate a spider and he still claims he's not a cat," "The countryside is so quiet after being in Tokyo," "I still have your glove, just so you know"--and if he doesn't do something soon he'll be crushed under the weight of it.
He weighs his options. It seems wrong somehow, anticlimactic, to reveal himself through pixels on a screen. And waiting for Ren to find him or return to Tokyo so he can meet him there won't work either; Goro can be patient, but he can't be passive. So there's only one choice. He pockets his fancy new fake ID card and boards a train to Ren's sleepy hometown.
---
Right up until the first time he died, Akechi thought he'd exhausted everything new there was for him to learn. His focus was simply too narrow, too tunnel-vision focused on his own dumb vengeance plan for him to consider the wide range of the world, the vast array of perspectives it held.
And then he woke up in his bed on the evening of Christmas Eve without the familiarity of aches in his bones and the crushing pressure of his own self-hatred, and instead was flooded with an entirely new ideology, dissonant enough to his weightless mind to be fascinating, if abhorrent.
He had to reject it, had to do everything in his power to ensure it would never take hold. It was the only considerable option by a wide margin. But it pressed him upward anyway into a new resolve, reminded him that there may still be new truths to uncover and decide.
---
Life at the rehabilitation center is monotonous; the days run into each other like sand, piling on themselves and making Goro feel dull around the edges. It's healthy, he knows, to reduce the speed of his mind and the tension threading through his veins, but there's a part that still aches for the rush of his old life.
Takayama is small enough that there are no bouldering gyms, and Goro left Tokyo in too much of a hurry to bring his bicycle along. He runs the trails along the Nakuta river instead, never stopping to catch his breath, picking up pace as the elevation grows, and it almost scratches the itch that fighting alone in the Metaverse did.
Takayama is large enough to have a single arcade, nestled in an alley behind the variety store. Goro isn't even sure why he walks in, sweaty and panting from his usual morning run. The carpet must hold years of grime, judging by the distinct salty musk of the air, and it's patterned a vibrant red and black that reminds him of the swirl of energy that surrounded a target in Mementos. Lights and sounds flood his senses and something dormant stirs in his chest.
The arcade draws him in each day with its flashing lights, the clang and thrum of the machinery designed to lure its few, sleepy patrons into a challenge. He cycles through the stations one by one, developing a feel for their gimmicks. One day he stumbles on a machine that sits barely used and tucked into the back corner of the room with the rest of the rhythm games, pounding an infectious techno beat and flashing lights from its four panels on the floor.
Goro hasn't lived under a rock; he knows what Dance Dance Revolution is. But he's never had the time, nor, if he's being honest, the interest. Still, there's something infectious about it. "Show me what you got!" the announcer shouts. Goro can't help but oblige.
He chooses a song with a rating of "8" and figures his proficiency is plenty to ace it. He fails in twenty seconds. He flicks his game card across the box again and chooses the same song. Forty seconds this time--improvement.
An hour later he finally passes the damned thing, and by the end of the day his clothes are drenched and he's secured his first full combo.
"A new record!" the machine chirps. And Goro can't help the satisfaction that pours onto his features at his first measurable progress in recent memory, that feeling of winning, for real that he'd almost lost the taste of. He taps his moniker into the machine, snaps a photo of the screen, and snags a glance at it as he flops into bed that night.
HIGH SCORE
RIVAL 1: CROW
---
It stares back at him through his screen and the wash of rural landscape flashes in his peripheral vision through the window. That word, rival, marks the hole left behind by a satisfaction he once felt.
At times, Goro worries that he's been chasing a ghost, an illusion of something that should occupy far less space in his mind. His set of bonds has been small, after all, and perhaps what he has--had--with Ren is commonplace for everyone who didn't spent their teenage years becoming a minor celebrity detective and a supernatural assassin.
From some angles of inspection, it seems impossible that Ren would have clung as hard as he has to the bond they'd sparked all those months ago. Someone like Ren has no shortage of options to choose from. Certainly, in all likelihood, to Ren, Goro is simply one of many. Unexceptional. A single name among his wide array of acquaintances.
But what does he truly have to lose? The Ren in his mind calls to him and dares him to investigate, so he can't say no; he faces forward and braces himself as always for the mission.
---
Reconnaissance is prudent, Goro tells himself. He stays at the shady motel along the outskirts--cheap enough for him to afford for years and discreet enough not to check ID--venturing out only for brief scouting and food. He finds himself dusting off his old shadow avoidance skills, positioning himself around corners with good visibility but decent cover to avoid being caught off guard.
Before long he feels bold enough to push the boundary into the main drag. It's host to two blocks of trinket shops and a coffee cafe that Goro wouldn't dare enter. As he's skulking through alleys, marveling at the phenomenon of a town with a single konbini that closes at 6pm, a flash of neon catches his eye.
An arcade. And in the back corner, a machine with a familiar banner.
It's technically illegal to break in after hours, but the lock practically picks itself and Goro will, in fact, be patronizing the shop while he's there. He feels that familiar thrum of energy, stronger for the thrill of infiltration, and gets to work.
By the end of the night, he's dripping in sweat, satisfied, and has left his moniker all over the machine.
---
Small towns are boring, and even the most mundane of rumors spreads quickly.
Two days after his first night of play, he visits the bakery next to the arcade and overhears whispers of "Crow" from a pair of preteen punks giggling over their trays of pastries. By the end of the week, the desk attendant at the motel is chatting on the phone about it.
For as obvious as it must be to have high scores mysteriously appear overnight, the elderly owner of the arcade doesn't seem inclined to increase security. Perhaps because all of the chatter has driven more patrons into the shop during the day, perhaps because Goro continues to pay at night. It becomes a daily routine: visit the bakery late in the afternoon when he wakes up, sneak through the alleys as he drinks his mediocre coffee, eats his breakfast and waits for the sun to set, and infiltrate the arcade once everyone has gone to bed.
The notoriety should give Goro pause, but instead it spurs him on. Soon, he's collected his first dozen AAA's and is well on his way to mastering one of the harder boss songs.
---
It's roughly a month after first coming to town that Goro feels himself begin to plateau. It's not that there isn't still a certain rush to his methods, but there is also monotony in competing only with oneself. Like the strike of fate, he barely has the thought before something new stokes the fire once more.
HIGH SCORE
RIVAL 1: JOKR
RIVAL 2: CROW
Before the shock can sink in, a strange icon takes over the screen, vaguely cat-like with a sharp-toothed grin and a fuse for a tail. A familiar, chilling cackle sounds through the speakers. And a message, in big, block letters underneath:
Found you.
---
He knows he can't return to the arcade right away, not without a strategy. It would be too easy to simply allow Joker to lure him out of hiding, to dive right back into whatever choreographed rivalry they'd practiced before and let himself get swept away in the current.
For all of his big words like "I'm done dancing under anyone else's strings" and "I'll walk my own path" Goro knows embarrassingly little about how to move on his own. He can count on two fingers the truly independent decisions he's made and both of them ended in death.
Holed in his ramshackle motel room, he scribbles thoughts into a notepad like the staff at the clinic taught him.
"It can be helpful when things seem uncertain," Ueno-san hums from her seat on the bench beside him. The river babbles behind her, accompaniment to the melodious wisdom she offers, her gentle hands folded in her lap. Goro traces the grain of the bench's weathered wood with his index finger, doing his best to actively listen without letting his mind wander.
"I'm like you," she continues, "I tend to get stuck when there isn't a clear choice in front of me."
He scoffs, low enough in his throat that he's certain it would be covered by the sound of the river. But he hears her chuckle in response.
"Hmm, yes, I used to think I was above it too. Well, whichever path you choose, and however you get there, I hope you're able to find others around you to rely on for support. Maybe even be a source of support yourself someday. I've found that is key. There are things we learn from others that it's simply impossible to learn on our own, I truly believe that."
At the time, he wrote it off as the same flavor of lie the Phantom Thieves had forced upon him in the bowels of his father's twisted heart half a year and a lifetime ago. But the words still ping off of the sides of his skull, edging their way into focus from his peripheral vision.
He'd decided when he purchased the ticket that the purpose of this trip was business alone. His rivalry with Ren had yet to reach a conclusion, and once they determined a victor, that unnamed force pressing on his chest whenever his phone lit up with a message would subside, regardless of the outcome.
If he's being slightly more honest, he's curious. Curious about Ren--why Ren might want him around after all that happened between them, how he's grown since they last met. What he would think of the changes Goro has undergone, whether he would even notice them.
And if he's being the most honest of all, there is an obvious answer lurking in plain sight. What he wants is exactly what Ueno-san had described. A confidant, an ally, a friend--someone to support and a chance to support them in return. An opportunity to learn from each other and grow alongside one another. He suspects that's what Ren had been offering all along, if only he hadn't been too blind to see it, too prideful to embrace it.
Goro buries his face in his hands and groans. And then he straightens his spine and renews his resolve.
---
Step one: the reveal.
Technically, Ren had beaten him to the punch. But Goro imagines he could still catch him unawares.
If it takes him three separate attempts at a casual but flourished entrance to the coffee shop before he finds an afternoon when Ren's working a shift, no one needs to know but him.
And for his efforts, all he receives is a split-second of the mask dropping, Ren's eyes widening and his lips parting slightly so that he can gasp at the sight of Goro in front of him.
"Welcome," Ren says, neutrality slotted back onto his features, as if Goro were any other customer. "What can I get for you?"
A familiar game: a slow, understated dance around the elephant in the room.
"Good question," Goro replies, canting backward and resting his chin on his index finger. He swears he sees the corners of Ren's mouth quirk, just slightly. "When I was spending time in Tokyo, I became quite fond of a particular café's house blend. Perhaps you're familiar with it? It's a blend of Colombian and Peruvian beans and the resulting brew is remarkably smooth."
"Is that Akechi?" A boyish voice tears through the fragile ambiance, muffled behind the bar. "About time he showed himself!"
Now it's Goro's turn to suppress a smile.
Ren tilts his head in feigned thought, not missing a beat.
"You can't get as many of the blends here as you can in Tokyo. But... I might have something you'd like." He lowers his voice, intensity in his eyes boring into the soft meat under Goro's ribs. "From my own personal stash. My uh... former guardian. He sent it in a care package."
"Sounds excellent," Goro says, doing his best to mask the rush of emotion surging through him, "if it's not too much of an inconvenience?"
Ren shakes his head, leaving no room for question. "Never was."
He watches Ren spin on a heel to face the cabinet behind him, just like he used to do behind the counter at Leblanc. The apron is a slate grey which brings out the flecks of silver in his irises; his eyes themselves are unobscured by glasses and Goro's pulse jumps at the realization. Otherwise, it almost feels like they've traveled back in time, that it's nearly a year earlier and they're still in Tokyo trapped on opposing sides.
It takes no effort to fall back into the habit of intense observation of his target: cataloguing the speed at which Ren's fingers flick the switch of the grinder and the precise angles of his wrist as he tilts the kettle over the siphon. The slight pressure of his lips and the easy slope of his shoulders as he concentrates, gaze set on the steady stream of water trailing from the tip of the gooseneck, following a smooth path, tracing a flat plane through the air.
Goro knows nothing about brewing quality coffee, but he can tell Ren has refined his method since they last met. The aroma wafts toward him, thick and full, and he can imagine the look of pride on Sojiro Sakura's face at the skills Ren has built, at the care he puts in to all that he does.
It's obvious why Goro spent that year deeply envious of Ren. Ren possesses a grace that makes every motion seem effortless and charming. He's swift and striking and versatile and generous, admired and loved and deserving.
The bitter taste of the emotion coating his feelings back then is clear in his memory, but Goro feels a shift in his heart as the last of it melts away.
When one is standing still, those around them appear to be traveling twice as quickly. As difficult as it was to see at the time, Goro had been static. He forced himself to believe that progressing along the path toward Shido's demise had been a choice made freely, but the truth was that with his fate locked in place he had no room to grow.
He once spat bile-soaked words at Ren, professing hatred for how quickly his rival had been able to progress. They had been meant for himself, at the boy stuck in place and trapped in a plan that would end in his own destruction.
His position now is clear in comparison. Though his speed may be slow, his direction inconsistent, Goro is traveling. Targets are more difficult to see when one is in motion, but a shift in one's own mentality is sometimes necessary to gain the perspective required to understand what is truly desired.
Finally, Goro understands.
---
Step two: the hook.
"So," Ren says, voice trained a little too cool to be natural as he slides the coffee toward Goro. "Find any new hobbies now that there are no shadows to hunt?"
Goro takes a deep inhale over his mug of Leblanc house blend and feels his features soften at the wave of nostalgia the scent evokes.
He'd anticipated this question; Ren always had been good at leading a conversation in a way that Goro was powerless to resist. The trick, he's learned, is to twist his own goals such that his destination aligns with where Ren leads.
"I've become quite fond of a particular arcade game," he says, setting his mug down on the counter, punctuating the statement with a satisfying thud of ceramic on wood.
"Yeah?" Ren leans onto the counter, rests his chin on his palm, just barely crossing the line into Goro's space.
"You should stop by sometime." He tries to gauge Ren's reaction to the proposition, but his expression isn't betraying him. Goro leans back and takes a casual sip of his coffee before continuing. "I play most days. We could have a little friendly competition, though I must warn you that I'm close to unbeatable."
Ah, there's a reaction. "Cute that you think you stand a chance against me," Ren smirks, voice low and quiet.
"You said the same thing about Gun About last year," Goro reminds him.
"Yeah, but I know how to dance."
"Do you?" Goro pauses, honestly intrigued. He hadn't been aware that Ren's rolling list of skills included real dance. "Regardless," he continues, "Dance Dance Revolution is no more dancing than Gun About is marksmanship."
Ren flicks a dish towel across his shoulder, turns to begin stacking plates on the counter. "And yet the skills transferred." He shrugs.
Goro smiles. "Or I'm simply the superior player."
Ren raises an eyebrow. "Sounds like we need more data."
A beat hangs heavy between them.
Goro sighs. "I forgot how fun you are to argue with," he admits.
A fond smile breaks across Ren's features. "I didn't."
When the last drop of coffee hits his tongue, a soft wash of disappointment that it's gone flows through Goro's chest, with a bubbly undercurrent of excitement for the promise of more.
There are so many questions left to ask and answer. A near-infinite collection of things he wants to say to Ren right now, before they burst out of him in one grand explosion. But the game in front of them now requires neither secrecy nor haste. Goro decides to take his time for once, to savor the luxury they're afforded.
"This was delicious, thank you." He focuses on Ren's hands, which have made their way to the bar, palms flat on the counter as he stares at Goro. "I should be..."
"Wait," Ren says. Goro can see something urgent in his expression, and it almost feels like they've traveled back in time, that it's four months earlier and he's asking the boy in front of him to let him go for the sake of reality.
And then Ren is in motion, Ren is in front of him, and Goro finds himself unable to breathe as strong arms constrict him. He struggles just enough to free his own and wind them around Ren's chest.
"I missed you," Ren whispers into his neck.
He breathes in the scent of coffee and salt and coconut shampoo, draws his arms a bit tighter. His mind races with memory and emotion; he's surprised to find that hope outweighs regret.
"I'm sorry," he whispers back. It's all he can conjure, too many and too few words at once.
They separate; Ren scrubs his face with his palms and wipes them on the front of his apron.
Goro places his payment on the counter and looks directly at Ren one last time, careful to pace himself, to exit before the gravity of the situation overwhelms him.
"I'll see you soon," he says, and means it.
---
Step 3: the battle.
It's a casual, last-minute plan, but that's just fine. Goro no longer has a schedule to maintain, especially here in this quiet town on a mission of his own making.
He has barely enough time to dress in his most flattering pair of bike shorts, carefully gather his hair into a ponytail that flatters his face, and fill his bottle with water and his pockets with coins before it's time to walk to the arcade.
Ren shows up wearing the same Shujin athletic shorts he wore back in Tokyo. He rolls his phone in his hand twice before pocketing it. Goro would roll his eyes if he weren't too distracted by the way his black t-shirt lay snug against the muscles in his chest.
"Hi," Ren says with a wave before shoving his hands in his pockets.
"Hello," Goro replies, reveling in the air around them, thick with pre-competition anticipation. His nerves itch with it.
"Hey!" calls a muffled voice from somewhere around Ren's shoulder and he startles, then whips around to unzip his bag. A furry head pops out.
Goro sets his hand on his hip. "What's your cat doing here?"
"For your information," Morgana interrupts, "I came to watch the show. Joker's a really good dancer, you know!"
Goro raises an eyebrow, first at the cat and then at Ren.
"Okay, fine," Morgana concedes. Based on the look Ren is giving him, it's obvious they've argued about this already. "Just one song. Then I'll leave you to... whatever this is," he gestures with his paw in a circular motion.
"Then we shouldn't delay." Goro hops onto the mat and hovers an index finger over the start button. "Shall we?"
Ren nods. Peewww-shhhk, says the machine. Dance, Dance, RRREVOLUTION!
Goro picks the first song, a sentimental side of him returning to the one he first passed back in the arcade near the rehabilitation center. When he turns to see if Ren approves of his selection, titled Blind Justice ~Torn Souls, Hurt Faiths~, he nods, a private joke hidden somewhere beneath his expression.
The first set of three songs is a warm-up, barely a challenge. Their scores are nearly identical; it's difficult to determine how they compare when neither has missed a step.
The more they play, the more Goro's nerves settle, making way for him to focus on other, more important things. Like the sensation of his shoes pounding onto the glass of the dance pad or the euphoria of stepping in perfect sync with Ren.
It feels so comfortable and fun to be moving in unison alongside each other. He thinks he can physically sense the energy radiating off of the boy at his side, harmony with his own elation and the crisp rhythm of their shared steps loud enough to drown out the music. He sneaks a glance during a natural break between arrows to find Ren doing the same, smiling back at him.
Lost in the pounding of the bass and the echoing thrum of his own heartbeat, Goro has forgotten Morgana was present at all, but somewhere in the third set a yowl near his feet breaks through his focus and ruins his combo.
"This is boring!" he whines. "I'm going to go wander."
Ren's hand waves goodbye in Goro's peripheral, the cat's collar jingles as he trots away, and it's finally just the two of them alone.
Little by little, they choose charts with more difficulty. It's clear that both of them have strengths and weaknesses, so complementary that it's still quite impossible to determine a victor. Goro's timing accuracy and foot speed surpass Ren's, but Ren is far superior when it comes to rhythmically difficult passages and tricky step patterns. It's not nearly as much like combat as Goro thought it would be, performing side-by-side and competing as much against themselves as against each other.
"Hey," Ren pants at the end of the eighth set. "Play that last song again?" He folds into a squat, rests his elbows on his knees. Goro smirks at him as he huffs.
"Gonna sit the next one out and watch you. Wanna see how you're able to manage that thirty-second note run without dying."
His heart swells. At long last, the victory he's craved is in his grasp. The proof, once and for all, that he has what it takes to best Ren, even if it's in a simple, meaningless rhythm game.
"Losing pace, Joker?" he chides, ready to force him to accept defeat and admit that, yes, Goro, you are superior to me, but Ren's response reminds him of just what drew Goro to him in the first place: a fresh and surprising perspective.
"Nah. Just try'na learn."
In an instant, their game shifts into something else entirely.
Goro shows Ren how he shifts his body weight between steps in order to harness the natural momentum he's built, and Ren shows Goro how to increase the arrow speed and color to make quick, syncopated passages easier to read.
By the end of the day, both of them have broken a dozen personal records.
Ren still chooses style over accuracy, executing spins, vaulting over the bar, sometimes hitting the dance pad with the heel of his palm, which should make him look like an ape but he somehow manages to make stylish.
Goro still flubs rhythms and foot switches in songs that he doesn't know well—"there's really no trick to it, just practice," Ren's voice echoes behind him.
He's not used to the sensation of lifting Ren up with no intention of knocking him down; being lifted with no fear of being cut down himself.
It's not that there isn't competition involved. It would be against their nature to suppress the urge in both of them that longs to prove themselves to one another. But the true victory is in challenging each other to be the best they can be, in supporting each other along the way. The Hegelian dialectic in action.
---
Goro is red-faced and his clothes are dripping when he makes his last planned move. His hair is plastered to the side of his face and he desperately needs a shower; he can feel the salt beginning to crystalize on his skin. Ren isn't faring much better, by the look of him.
It feels like the most natural thing in the world to reach to the other bar, where Ren's hand is resting, and place his own overtop it.
"I missed you too," he whispers. "I apologize for taking this long to..."
Ren shakes his head, "No, I get why you needed time."
"You sent me messages," Goro says like a confession. "You kept sending them."
"Yeah, I wasn't sure you were getting them, but I hoped..." With his free hand, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a worn, slightly sweat-soaked piece of leather.
Goro's eyes go wide; he sucks in a breath. His fingers curl over Ren's.
"You owed me a rematch," Ren explains, shrugging and placing the glove carefully back into his pocket. "But it looks like this one is a draw, too. So I'll hold on to this."
Goro nods. "We're in agreement, then, that we aren't finished with one another. Though... I propose that our next activity is a trip to the bathhouse. Then, perhaps, dinner and a movie?"
"Sounds like a date," Ren says, not quite confident enough not to be a question.
"I'm up to the challenge," Goro says. "If you are?"
"Let's do it." He smiles, and it's like all of the color in Goro's world shines brighter.
The world and all its mysteries, for the first time, open to the two of them. To choose a path together, or not.
For the first time, he's truly excited not to know where they're heading. To trust in his own ability to move, and grow, and adapt alongside Ren for as long as he can; to follow instruction or to figure it out himself, and to have the freedom to decide.
---
It's roughly three years after their first DDR date that they realize they've completed the game.
JOKR and CROW hold the top two records for every song on the machine near their apartment in Ebisu. To Goro, it's a record of their achievements, yes, but also of the ways he and Ren support each other. Each song holds a memory of lessons that he's learned alongside Ren.
"I'm not sure what to do next," Goro admits.
Ren shrugs. "Could try dancing without arrows."
Goro considers this.
"I could show you my moves," Ren continues. He shuffles to the left, twirls around and does a strange shimmy with his hips, ending with his finger pointed up just like the disco dancer on the game screen behind him.
Goro's jaw drops. He bursts out laughing.
"That's it," Ren says with a bow. "That's all of my moves."
When he's caught his breath, Goro finds himself on the precipice of another learning curve, a large array of options ahead.
They could take lessons, watch videos online, figure it out on their own or some combination of it all.
The world holds a full spectrum of styles. Off the top of his head: ballet, tango, salsa, tap, kabuki, bollywood, samba, waltz, belly, disco, river, break, interpretive. They could perfect their skills and perform, or they could move alone together, in their bedroom, making it up as they go along.
He says as much to Ren; they're in agreement.
They'll figure it out. Goro thinks to himself that it doesn't matter what they choose to pursue or how long it takes them to get there. As long as they're moving together, he'll be satisfied.