Bit of a shorter chapter this time, but it moves along the plot . . .

Chapter 4: I see he's remembered how to be angry

Disregarding the terrible nightmares of the Dark One's attempt to get him to serve him willingly, the sleeper's dreams were fragmented, ragged, as broken as he was. In them are fractaled moments of things that both did and did not happen. Sometimes, he has a family and people who love him. Other times, there is nothing but himself.

(Once, there was a man who wore a mask with a long nose, and a pretty blue butterfly that fluttered alongside him. That was a strange dream, a rare one, but he cannot remember much of it save a feeling of hope at the end—like he had made a choice, and for once, chosen rightly.)

Sometimes, he remembers who he was: a name, a purpose, surprisingly light brown hair and an unfortunately pretty face for a man. Sometimes, he remembers what he was: an outcast, an anarchist, an assassin. Often there were great monsters who guided him through the dreams, sometimes into light, others times into darkness. One was a giant anthropomorphic chicken, as far as he can tell. That was the good one, the one who led him into periods of lucidity, and made him feel that not everything was terrible.

The other one was an evil, horned zebra. Most often it tried to lead him into deep, dark pits, where he would forget everything for a time. Less often—yet far more terribly—it held up a mirror to the sleeper's face, and what he saw there would make him scream and scream until all the lights went out and he knew nothing more.

There was one dream in which his archetypal monsters came together, however, and it was at once the most lucid and the most terrible of all the dreamer's faded recollections. It was a dream where he did not remember his name, but the surroundings were vividly clear. He was in the belly of a ship, a great ocean liner, with huge bulkheads segregating the cavernous space. His monsters stood at his side, bloody and battered, and there were enemies all around him. On one side were monsters like the chicken and zebra, on the other, humans in odd clothes. The monsters were healthy and strong and the humans were weak, more than half of them lying on the floor unconscious or otherwise incapacitated. None were in any position to fight save one, their leader, who stared at the dreamer with a gaze like fire, and a will as strong as diamond.

The stranger's inner strength made the sleeper feel weak, like he'd never been enough, but it also inspired a measure of protectiveness. The stranger must not fail. The stranger must not fall. The sleeper would not allow it. Every step of his own journey had resulted in failure, and there was nothing that the sleeper could do but this: aim the pistol in his hand at the bulkhead controls.

There was a moment of coherence: Shido cannot take anything more from me. Not my enemies.

Not him.

Whether the tall stranger was his rival or his savior the sleeper did not know, but he was aware that he was his only hope. For he was dying, and there was not much time left. The strength in his body was failing, and he could barely see straight when he fired off the shot that shattered the machinery of the control, activating the bulkhead and separating him from his human enemies . . . while trapping him on the side with the monsters.

Blood ran down his face and his body crumpled inwards with the effort of firing his weapon. The zebra monster backed away as the chicken man attempted to shelter him with translucent wings, but out of the mass of them stepped a new monster, the most terrible one of all: a handsome young man in a school uniform, with too-long hair and a perfectly polished veneer.

His vision failing, the sleeper raised his pistol. Like a mirror, the terrible human did as well. Desperate, alone, too defeated to do anything other than fail, the sleeper fired, his bullet lodging itself neatly into his mirror's brain.

At nearly the same time, there was a second crack of thunder and a terrible pain in his own head, blood arcing violently out from the corner of his vision.

The dream ended in death and darkness, as did the sleeper's life.

Goro Akechi's eyes flew open, totally aware and awake at long last. Bound to the hospital bed for his safety and that of others, he could do nothing more than scream and scream and scream.

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When Nurse Uehara called to tell Akira to come in—it was more akin to pleading, truly—he had to beg off halfway through his last shift at the bar just so he could make the late train to the Osaka Psychiatric Hospital. Morgana hadn't appreciated being left at home, but there was nothing Akira could do. Unless his furry friend somehow made his own way to the hospital (which was not outside the realms of possibility) Akira would have to handle his ex-rival on his own.

Maybe there was something wrong with him, but he was kind of excited at the prospect of doing so.

By the time he reached room 336, however, that excitement had dimmed considerably. In its place was grim purpose. Goro was thrashing and moaning on the bed, hurling obscenities at Uehara, one of the few nurses who could still remember him.

"I tranq'ed him an hour ago," she told Akira with a disbelieving look, as he entered the room. "I don't know how, but it hasn't made the slightest difference."

Akechi roared, and Akira was distantly impressed that he managed that kind of volume, ill and thin as he was.

"I'll take it from here," he assured her. "Just keep the door shut, and don't let anyone come in. He's got a lot of rage to work through, and I'll make sure he doesn't get to anyone else."

Uehara gave him a look like she wasn't sure she had gotten herself into. "I absolutely shouldn't let you do this," she said. "But you remind me of a young man I once knew. He had a special way of dealing with things, so I'm just gonna . . ." She trailed off, pointing towards the door.

As this conspired, Goro continued on wailing and thrashing, unabated.

Uehara made for the door, and just as she closed it behind her, he stopped screaming.

"You," he whispered, voice hoarse in the sudden quiet. "Oh, god. It's you."

That settled any question of whether or not Akechi would remember all when he woke up. Morgana was correct, and when he found out, would likely be insufferable. Akira turned, schooling his expression into one of calm.

"Hello, Goro," he said. "I'm glad to see you're awake."

"Oh, no. Hell, no. Fuck this fucking clusterfuck!" Akechi swore, in a display that might have begrudgingly impressed Ryuji. "It can't be you. How are you here?"

He's still in shock, Akira mused. That meant he had some time before shit hit the fan. "Do you know where here is?"

Goro's eyes cut from one corner of the room to another. "Hell, of cou—wait, no. A hospital. Osaka." His eyes narrowed. "Psychiatric unit? Why the hell am I here?"

Akira glanced over, noting that Goro had read the tiny print on the equipment in the corner. Incredible attention to details as well as a formidable natural intelligence had made his stint as the detective prince believable, and it appeared not all his talents were lost.

"This is where our friends in the Velvet Room thought it best to put you," he answered. "You would have died, otherwise. Do you remember Igor and Lavenza?"

"Friends?" Goro seethed, having heard only choice words of Akira's explanation. "We are not friends. In no universe will we ever be anything other than sworn enemies, you neanderthal!"

Akira's eyes shuttered. When compared to the sweetly naive boy Akechi had been the last time he'd woken, this was . . . jarring. But no less than you expected the first time, he told himself. Buck up, buttercup. It's time to do what you do best—antagonize the shit out of him.

"That's not what you said the other day," he murmured. "Then, all you wanted was a hug."

Where that piece of flippancy came from Akira didn't know, but it certainly did the trick. Akechi strained against his restraints, red-faced and spitting in his rage.

"Get out of here! Go! I don't need you! I don't need anyone!"

"Even to let you out?" Akira asked, stepping closer. "Don't you want me to emancipate you?"

If looks were lasers, Akira would be sporting two smoking hot holes in his brain. I see he's remembered how to hate me, he thought. This is probably a good sign.

"I don't need you," he repeated. "I'll just scream until someone comes. Then—"

"Then the cops will be called, because you know your name, now—"

"I don't care!" he roared. "Let them take me! I will atone!"

"You're not a minor, anymore," Akira noted, disturbed. "They can execute you for what you've done."

Goro sneered at him. "So be it. It's what I deserve. As long as Shido is gone—"

"And are you sure he is?"

"You wouldn't be here breathing my air if he wasn't," he spat.

"Fair enough," Akira allowed. "And yeah, because he didn't actually kill anyone personally he's got life in prison. Sentence got passed a month ago. Sae Niijima prosecuted—you just missed it."

"Fucking bitch," Goro spat. "At least she didn't mess that up."

Akira sat back a moment, just looking at him. He wasn't entirely sure how to feel. His patience was expansive, but Sae was the older sister of his girlfriend. His loyalty should be with the whole Niijima clan, but Goro was completely correct: Sae had been a huge fucking bitch before they'd fought her shadow, and completely to Akira's detriment.

That left him in a quandary: should he take offense, and show Goro he wouldn't stand for this? Or should he smother him with acceptance, which would disarm him and, more intriguingly, confuse the fuck out of him?

Whichever route he chose, he knew the backbone of what he must do. Akechi was weak and close to burning out, but he needed to be pushed to the wall before he could stand on his own again. His pride would accept nothing less.

"I'm going to undo your restraints," Akira said, choosing to keep calm for now. "Keep in mind you've been in a coma for a solid year, and may not even have the strength to sit up on your own."

"I'm not going to run," Goro said darkly. "I'm going to let them kill me."

"Yeah, about that . . ." Akira said, striving for nonchalance. He hit it, if he could say so himself. "That's not on the docket for today, sport. You're gonna be sticking with me for a bit."

Goro swallowed, his dry throat clicking. "So, you want the pleasure yourself? I should have expected nothing less. I did try to kill you, after all." His eyes tracked to the ceiling. "Perhaps that's fitting. Make it quick."

Akira paused in undoing Goro's ankle bands. "You're still not getting it. I'm not gonna kill you, I'm gonna help you get better."

"Get better?" The scornful derision dripped from his tone like poison. "There's no fixing me. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Akira nodded, as if he'd just made up his mind. "Yeah, dying's not what I had in mind for you. In fact, you can't even consider death as an option until you've gotten every member of the Phantom Thieves to forgive you. And then you have to make it up to me, obviously, because it's kind of rude to shoot someone's Metaverse equivalent. Plus a guard. Jeez, that was kind of a dick move, Goro."

Akechi sputtered as Akira undid one wristband, and then the other. When he realized Akira was serious, his eyes narrowed. "That's impossible. You're impossible. There's no way I can ever atone for my sins save by dying for them!"

"That's the coward's way out, Goro," Akira argued.

"Stop using my first name!"

Akira smiled. "Why not? It's a very nice name, Goro. I like the o's in particular. You know, I think I'll call you that every day until you win my team's forgiveness."

Either losing control of his barely banked rage, or coming to the conclusion that he was arguing with a madman—for Akira was a little round the twist, he'd be the first to admit—Goro tried to hit him. When he could do little more but flop an arm in Akira's direction, he began to seethe once again.

"I hate you! Go away, leave me alone! I hate you!"

Here was the part where Akira would have to tread carefully. The last thing he wanted to do was tell Goro a lie, because he was fairly sure that, newly woken from a coma after gunshot to the head or not, he would be able to tell. And as Akira's feelings about and for Goro Akechi, his onetime murderer and almost friend were complicated even to him, there were a lot of pitfalls he could potentially fall into.

"Well, I don't hate you," he finally said, deciding on being as childish and abstract as he needed to be to continue confusing the fuck out of the logical, right-brained Akechi. "And if attempting to murder me didn't make me hate you, you're gonna have to work a hell of a lot harder than that. Even throwing temper tantrums won't work. I think they're kind of cute, actually."

For a moment both boys blinked at each other. This gave Akira a moment to examine the words that just came out of his mouth, and wonder what the hell was wrong with him.

Yet as surprising as it was for him to realize that was indeed truth, it knocked Goro completely off-balance. His flush was equal parts anger and embarrassment as he argued, "It's not cute. I'm not—you're not . . . What's wrong with you? The last time I was coherent I tried to kill you. I did kill you!"

"And then you killed yourself to save us all," Akira noted. "In my mind, we're even."

Goro slumped back onto the bed, exhausted. "You're an utter imbecile. I can't believe an idiot like you managed to not only survive me, but to defeat Shido, as well."

That was the least of what the Phantom Thieves of Hearts had accomplished, but Akira merely sat and smiled at him. He'd tell him about Yaldabaoth and Igor's game later, when he could be sure it wouldn't cause Goro to fall into a flailing relapse.

"Of course we did," he said, calmly. "It was your last request. How could I fail you?"

Whatever Goro's argument was, it died in his throat. He lay there blinking up at Akira, clearly trying to discern his motives. His mistrust made Akira smile.

"You don't believe me?" He asked softly. "Do you want me to prove it to you?"

Goro watched him through slitted eyes. Even now his brain was working hard, trying to piece angles together, to determine Akira's motives. That, more than his anger, seemed a positive sign. He wasn't ready to roll over and die, not really.

"Prove what, exactly?" He asked.

"That your continued existence is important to me." Akira replied.

"For what, so we can continue the game our 'masters' undertook?" He asked angrily. "Yes, I know all about that. He told me, the Bad—the—the . . ." Goro stuttered, muscles convulsing as fear overtook him. He struggled to breathe, his dark eyes blowing wide in panic.

Akira leaned over him. And on top of everything else, PTSD. With less brilliance than desperation, he kept his voice calm and ordered the gasping boy, "Goro, I need you to stay calm and breathe. Breathe in with me—1, 2, 3, 4. Hold it. Breathe out—4, 3, 2, 1. Again. Look at me, stay with me. 1, 2, 3, 4 . . ."

He continued in that vein for some time, but the effect of it was undeniable. As soon as Goro had a clear purpose, a designated command, anxiety fell away in large increments. For here was the undeniable truth of Goro Akechi that Akira had come to after his months in juvenile hall, thinking over the last few months of his life: he needed to be needed. He needed to be useful. And at the end, he needed to be praised.

Akira knew he could do all that. Better than anyone else, he could put Goro into a position where he was needed, useful, and ultimately, made much of. It was, to a certain extent, what he'd done with every single 'social link' he'd made during the months leading up to the battle with Yaldabaoth. And while it had been some time since then, he was by no means out of practice.

"Very good," Akira breathed as Goro lay on the bed, still, breathing all by himself. "You did well, Goro. You fought it back all on your own. Well done." To add emphasis, he let his fingertips rest on Goro's nearest shoulder, for just a moment.

"You are vile," Goro said tiredly. His eyes were closed, but didn't move his shoulder away. "Idiotic. I hate you."

"I think I'm going to keep you," Akira mused, squeezing gently before slowly bring his fingertips away from the boy on the bed. "You are brilliant, after all, and kind of amazing. A persona-user who's seen the light. And one of those people who are all cranky on the outside but kind of gooey on the inside. That is my favorite type," He finished, thinking both of Goro's prickly exterior and jelly-filled donuts, because they too were soft on the inside and also because he was getting pretty hungry.

While Akira thought he was on a roll with all these weird analogies, figures of speech, and other odd correlations, Goro thought otherwise.

"What manner of nonsense are you spewing? You don't get to keep me." While scathing, Goro's voice was quiet and his eyes were still closed. He was likely too tired to open them again, or perhaps he was embarrassed that Akira had helped him through a minor panic attack. He'd also been in a coma for about a year, and Akira was frankly impressed that he had stayed awake and angry for this long.

Akira's head tilted to this side. "Then how about this? I'm not gonna fight you until we're equals. Until you can stand on your own feet and live your own life and look me in the eye again. When you can do that, then we can go at it. Like manly men, with our fists, and maybe even our personas if Igor sets something up for us in the Velvet Room, or Metaverse, or wherever. Until then, I'm going to look at you with these eyes full of pity, and wonder if you're doing ok, call you every day at weird times, and generally be like an old grandmother who, even though she smells weird, you can't bring yourself to think badly of. Or, you know, kill."

"Have you not met me?" Goro asked darkly. "I want everyone to die, including myself."

His eyes still closed, and Akira chose to take it as a sign of trust, along with exhaustion. "And I'd like you to go to sleep now, Goro. You need to rest so I can get you out of here sooner, rather than later, because if we get caught I'm gonna have to help you pay your medical bills."

"Go fuck yourself," Goro muttered, a little unevenly.

"Maybe later. For now, breathe in—1, 2, 3, 4," Akira said quietly. He kept up that rhythm until Goro had drifted off to sleep, breathing deeply and evenly on his own. He didn't even realize he was following my rhythm, Akira thought as he sat there and watched him breathe. He followed my orders without realizing it.

I think I can make this work.

But was it worth it?

Somehow, Akira found the answer was yes.