#but Akechi looked so fucking cursed I scrapped it :
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This utena quote really felt like it fit them, so I had to redraw it as shuake
#persona 5 royal#persona 5#shuake#akeshu#p5r#akechi goro#amamiya ren#persona 5 protagonist#ren x akechi#revolutionary girl utena#Really wanted to put them in Utena outfits but tbh Shiori's outfit is just not iconic enough#Juri's is pretty distinct but Shiori's isn't so in their metaverse outfits they go#I would love to draw them in utenanthy's outfits at some point tho hm#also I did initially draw the faces in the Utena style#but Akechi looked so fucking cursed I scrapped it :/
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aftermath: scrapped ryuji chapter
i really really liked this when i wrote it, but then i realized that it’d work so much better at a later point in the story ;;
i refused to delete it though; i hella want to share it because i still like it
if you haven’t read aftermath yet and have an interest in it, read it here!
Ryuji’s the first to admit he’s not the most observant person in Tokyo, but even he can tell something’s off the second he steps into Leblanc.
He’s not the first one there, but Futaba barely counts; she lives just across the street and practically lives at the counter now, kicking her toes against the bar and inhaling curry like it’s going out of style. Boss doesn’t count either, standing behind the counter brewing coffee. He shoots Ryuji a glance as the door opens. “Just you?”
Ryuji shrugs. “Ann stopped to buy crepes. Yusuke’s probably with her. Makoto and Haru’ll be here any minute; said we should stagger how quick we get here.” He hesitates, looking around the empty café. “Is, uh—“
“Upstairs. Probably best that it’s just you for now.” Boss sets a steaming mug in front of Futaba, who draws it inward with a frown. She won’t look up at Ryuji either, which sets off an uneasy tingle in the back of his mind.
The mood is somber where it should be triumphant. Hell, Akira should be down here already, draped over a booth with that dumb cocky smile of his.
After all, they won, didn’t they?
“Uh, alright,” he mumbles, slipping past Futaba with a gentle tug on her hair. She doesn’t even yelp, just reaches behind herself to slap at his hand.
The trip up the stairs is second nature by now; Ryuji’s up them in a heartbeat, ready to call out his usual “Yo!” when he realizes the room is dark and quiet, curtains drawn. Morgana is perched on the windowsill; the second Ryuji’s foot hits the attic floor he hisses “Keep it down, moron!”
“The hell are you callin’ a moron?” Ryuji snaps back, the hair on the back of his neck prickling uncomfortably. “Why’s it so dark? Feels like a morgue in here…”
“He’s sleeping!” Morgana’s bristling too, the fur at the nape of his neck rising as he jumps down, trotting across the floor only to stand up and sheath his claws in Ryuji’s pants. “Shut your big noisy mouth for once!”
It’s rude to kick cats, even annoying extra-dimensional not-cats, so Ryuji restrains himself to a muttered curse. “Why’s he sleepin’? It’s like, three in the afternoon?”
“Long night,” Akira croaks from the futon, making the both of them jump.
Morgana’s away in a flash, bounding away from Ryuji and onto the bed, winding around what Ryuji’d thought was just blankets. “You should be resting,” he scolds as Ryuji makes his way uneasily across the room. “What did Takemi-san say?”
“Why was your creepy doctor lady sayin’ anything?” Ryuji asks, feeling his brow furrow as Akira sits up really weirdly. It’s like someone’s yanking him up by a string—he holds his torso super stiff, every movement calculated and tense, and he’s wearing a hoodie in bed. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Everything’s fine,” Akira says, swinging his legs off the side of the futon with that same weird, stiff motion. He meets Ryuji’s eyes and grins, but something about that’s off too. Something tugs weirdly at the side of his mouth. “I was at the police station for a lot longer than I wanted to be; I didn’t get home until late.”
“Yeah, okay, but you’re also bullshitting me over something,” Ryuji says dubiously, bending down to look into his eyes more closely. There’s somethin’ weird about ‘em, watching the way they move around. “You think Akechi shooting your cognitive self screwed something up?”
Akira shakes his head, slow and deliberate. “Shouldn’t have. Everything went according to plan.”
He sounds winded, like he’s been running for half an hour, not lying in bed. When he reaches up to push his glasses up his nose, the cuff of his sleeve rides up his arm, exposing a neon-green bandage wrapping around his wrist.
Ryuji’s breath catches in his throat. When he flicks his eyes over to where Morgana sits, Morgana’s staring too, like some sorta mother hen.
He doesn’t know what to say, what to ask, what to do. None of their hurts linger long once they come out of the Metaverse, between the healing spells and the weird medicines Akira brings around for them, and even with that battle royale in the casino Akira hadn’t been nearly this beat up.
Whatever this is, whatever’s making him all stiff and breathless, that happened in the real world.
“Is anyone else here yet?” Akira asks casually, like nothing’s wrong. Ryuji swallows and shakes his head. “Good. I’m going to get dressed. You can wait for me downstairs, if you want.”
“You ain’t got nothing I haven’t seen before,” Ryuji says before he can think about it, crossing over to throw himself down onto the dusty old sofa. “Go ahead. I’ll tell you what went down after we separated.”
He thinks he sees a flicker of resignation in Akira’s eyes before he pretends to busy himself with his phone. “Go on, then.”
“Well…” Ryuji’s explanation is long and meandering, his eyes fixed firmly on his screen as he listens to Akira shuffle around behind him. Normally he moves like a cat, all easy grace and silent footsteps, but today he lumbers, drags his feet, his steps hitching and uneven. He makes a noise barely louder than a grunt at one point, just loud enough to make Ryuji glance over.
“Holy fucking shit,” he says, and drops his phone with a clatter.
“Not so loud,” Akira mutters with a long-suffering sigh, but the damage is done; Ryuji’s already across the room at his side, staring at the bruising on his thigh in horror. He’s seen shit like this before; a kid on the track team fell in the middle of a race and got trampled by half the guys during his second or third meet, and everyone got to gather around and stare at the bruising. It was gross-looking, like the bruises on an overripe banana, dark and rotten.
This is worse.
Akira’s not even putting any weight on it when he doesn’t have to, that’s why he’s been sounding so stumpy. He’s holding the pajama pants he was wearing in a white-knuckled grip. “Dude,” Ryuji says in horrified awe. “Akira. Sit down before you fall down.”
His mouth turns down at the corners, all stubborn and stupid. “I’m fi—“
“If you try and finish that sentence I’m gonna poke that bruise and then drag you back to bed,” Ryuji warns, plucking the pjs out of his hands and tossing them onto the sofa. It’s a little weird to be standing here with Akira just in his boxers, but that’s not really the biggest concern right now. “Are you—you said something about your doctor—dude, just, c’mere already, jeez—“
He ducks under Akira’s arm right before Akira wobbles, steadying him. “I said sit down! You shouldn’t even be standing on that.”
“So I’ve heard.” His voice is tense; Ryuji can clearly hear the pained breathing, up this close against him. “It’s not that bad.”
Ryuji rolls his eyes so hard he feels like they might fall out of his head, manhandling Akira back to the futon as gently as he can. “Last time I saw a bruise like this, the guy wasn’t out of bed for like a week and a half, and after that he was on crutches.”
He’s aware of the implications of a bruise like this. He doesn’t wanna think about it; it’s already making anger simmer slow and deadly in the pit of his stomach. The thought of Akira getting pummeled by those police bastards—
“Ryuji, stop squeezing,” Akira murmurs, his hand resting on Ryuji’s bicep. He loosens his grasp immediately, face flaming, but Akira doesn’t push him away. “It’s been looked at. Everything’s fine. I didn’t want you to see, that’s all.”
Ryuji doesn’t have words for that. He wants to yell, wants to curse and throw things and maybe kick someone, but none of that would help. None of that does anything for Akira, sitting here looking up at Ryuji with that stupid wry twist to his stupid self-sacrificing mouth. “Eff that,” he settles on saying, taking Akira’s hand in his and nudging up the sleeves to look at the bandages around his wrists. “If I saw something, you can bet everyone else’ll notice too.”
“Not if you help me get down there and settled before they get here.”
#filed under:#aftermath#scrapped writing#ryuji sakamoto#i love ryuji so stinkin much#must write more of him forever......
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