And for the first time in his life, Goro closed his eyes and reminisced.
In the darkness, he could almost see his mother's face, the gentle curve of her nose - maybe even the glint of her smile or the shine of her crimson eyes. Sometimes, he could see her in the mirror, staring back at him after a job well done for Shido. The dark, purple stains under her eyes, the weary crease of her forehead, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that settles into your very soul... Distantly, he wondered if she had ever slept a day of her life.
On the walls of Akira's room, he could not even begin to count the pictures of the other Thieves. Cheaply printed out onto the thinnest letter-sized paper and pinned to his dark gray walls with thumbtacks a variation of colors, the faces of Akira's closest friends watched him in the dim light. Even when the colors faded and the paper ripped and tore, those gazes might haunt him for the rest of his days. He was forever stripped down by their scrutiny, laid bare by their judgemental eyes, and left to shudder under their stares.
He pulled closer to himself, tucked under the covers with their precious leader. Akira's breath was hot against the nape of his neck, despite the frigid tundra of his bedroom. Perhaps the chill was in his veins, as if at home with the wrath and anger that permanently resided there.
Akira was warm in a way Goro remembered his mother to be. Even after long nights of work and awful men, she would pat the foot of her bed, an invitation for him to sit down and talk about his day. He would ramble about the ants he saw on the way home from school, how he watched them march on in lines and carry their dinner like a small army. He tended not to talk about the bullies or the mean things they said about him. He didn't want his mom to be sad - she hardly smiled as is.
He nuzzled his head further into his shared pillow, grounding himself in the present. His mother had been gone for twelve years already. It was scary, realizing he had been without her longer than he had been with her. Her face was fuzzy in his memories, and the exact intonation of her voice slipped away through his fingers like fine grains of sand. It frightened him, knowing that one day, he might not remember every detail. In a world as cruel as this, the only place she existed was in his fleeting memories. When he dies, she will die again.
His heart seemed to constrict, chest tightening at the thought. If he had died back in the engine room of Shido's ship, or if he had blinked out of existence once they had escaped Maruki's puppet show...
Goro rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He was but a vessel, keeping her memory alive. No matter how much it hurt, he had to live. It would only be fair to his victims if he lived every day of his life, constantly reminded of the blood on his hands and the weight of the tombstones slung around his neck. The crown of ruin and glory was bloodied, but it was his to wear. Perhaps this fate of his was fitting retribution.
In his sleep, Akira slung an arm across Goro's chest. The long-sleeved fabric of his shirt covered most of Akira's arm and Goro chased his boyfriend's warmth immediately by snatching Akira's hand into his own. Despite everything, Akira's fingers were warm, as if he had just placed a mug of Leblanc coffee onto the counter in front of Goro. It was a sentimental thought and, for once in his miserable existence, Goro failed to brush it away. He could enjoy a quiet moment like this, hidden in the darkness of Akira's childhood bedroom. Here, Goro could pretend that the Thieves' gazes weren't there. He could leave his regrets and remorse and burdens at the door, as if removing a heavy coat upon entering the warmth of his home.
Ah. That's what this had become, hadn't it? Home.
Goro clutched Akira's arm to his chest and interlocked their fingers, relishing in the lingering warmth. In the silence, he could feel Akira's pulse - a reassuring thump. thump. thump. For perhaps the thousandth time, he wondered what would have happened if he had been successful in killing Akira in that interrogation room. Akira wouldn't be here, fast asleep in his bed, and Goro certainly wouldn't be here at his side like the sentimental fool he was. They were both quite foolish, at the end of the day.
But perhaps Akira was the most foolish between the two of them. What sort of idiot would wish for a second chance with his almost killer? It baffled him that Akira had laid in his makeshift bed, tucked away in the cluttered attic of Leblanc, and wished for him. Had Akira clutched his glove, tightened his fingers over the cold leather, and cried?
Goro turned onto his side to face Akira and tangled their legs together. Destiny had bound them together, the red string woven intricately around their hearts. On bleaker days, Goro imagined it tied around his neck like an ornate noose. It made him wonder - had their fates been written in the stars, even before the sun first dawned on the earth? Were they simply pawns, paired together for the amusement of some higher-up existence? Perhaps that was too existential of a thought to be having in the quiet of early morning, so he hurriedly buried it.
In its wake, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Akira's. Dark, messy curls tickled his bare skin and, from this close up, Goro could easily count each and every one of Akira's eyelashes. Without his obnoxiously large glasses in the way, Goro could truly acknowledge how beautiful Akira's features were. How had he ended up with such a perfect boy?
He squeezed Akira's hand in his own, assuring himself that this was real, that he was really here and not living another lie. After escaping that false reality, he remembered the light of day on the 3rd of February. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine the light powdering of snow dusting his frame as he awoke in a secluded alley of Shibuya, shocked by the fact that he was truly alive. In that moment, he had resolved to leaving Tokyo, evading the Thieves, escaping the damning chains of fate-
But Akira had locked eyes with him at the train station, and here they were. Due to his probation ending, Akira had to return home to Inaba, and Goro needed to leave the city that had housed his own personal tragedy. What else was there to do besides take the first train out to the sticks? It was a second chance at life - and another chance with Akira.
Goro tilted his chin, pressing a kiss to the tip of Akira's nose. While Tokyo had offered nothing but heartbreak, it had given him Akira. It had given him a lifeline, something to desperately grasp onto once the puppet strings were cut. It had given his heart a reason to beat - incessantly, relentlessly, endlessly - until his atonement had finally been fulfilled.
He closed his eyes and, for perhaps the first time in his life, he genuinely smiled. Tokyo had given him Akira, and Akira had given him a home.