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Akira exhales softly as he sets down the last box he brought with him back to Inaba. His bedroom is just like how he left it, his collections and decorations veiled in a thin layer of dust. He's got a lot of cleaning to do.
"I saw your mom leave the house, is she not gonna help?" Morgana pops out of his bag, his fluffy body jumping out and landing gracefully on the floor.
"Probably not," Akira replies with a shrug. Not really a surprise, since they probably don't even care that he's back or what. "It's fine. Why don't you walk around while I clean?"
"Are you sure?" Morgana asks that yet is already perched on the window. "I can help. Probably."
"Right. You're just going to say I'm committing animal abuse the moment you get tired."
With a huff, Morgana leaps out of the window, leaving Akira alone. There's a cat-shaped dust spot by the window and it makes Akira chuckle a little. He sighs again right after, wishing he can actually just sit and think about how cute his cat is when he's still got to clean his room.
There's still plenty of boxes to go through and sort, so he grumbles to his feet and starts unpacking the boxes one by one. He makes sure to dust away the cabinets and sweep the floors before putting any of his items away until he reaches his bag that was left by the doorway and where Morgana came from. He reaches down to pick it up and close it, but he ends up reaching inside and picking up a certain glove that remained just a memory, yet unforgotten.
It feels like everything was just yesterday—meeting him at the TV station, their little not-quite dates, the gunshot he heard beyond the engine room door... Akira clutches it tighter.
People mourn differently. Akira is no exception. Except for the fact that until now, he never really had the chance to stay still and let his feelings grieve. His breathing shakes, unstable, and he decides to sit down on his bed, still holding the glove.
How many days has it been? How long has he stayed strong—phasing through the days, acting like nothing happened like everybody else? He holds the glove to his face, inhaling what little scent it has left. His heart hurts so much, yet he can't even find the tears to cry for.
In the end, he's no better than the rest of them for not letting himself grieve until now. Even if Goro's shadow follows him everywhere he goes, even when he feels like he could see his face everywhere—is that what grieving is? To never find peace anymore. Maybe he's been grieving far longer than he thought he was. Maybe this whole time, he never left the state he was in when he had to leave Goro beyond the door in the ship.
He closes his eyes, breathing uneven. There are so many things he wants to say—to Goro, to himself, to no one in particular just in the hopes it clears the guilt away. He feels like it's slowly killing him, still alive and his heart beating, yet it doesn't matter when his heart aches and aches for a tomorrow that will never come and there are words that will be left unsaid.
Akira knows it's not the end, but it feels like it. Looks like it. Maybe it is. He doesn't realise the setting sun is slowly fading away, quietly enveloping his room in darkness. Perhaps it's because of the pain in his chest, for he thinks he can make out the silhouette of the one person he yearns for in the dark.
Is it not enough? To mourn and yearn?
It's like he's dreaming, but the silhouette reaches out, and Akira feels something touch his hand.
"Goro—" he says under his breath, but it doesn't reach. The touch is gone and Akira's left alone to feel the cold light of the moon instead. It gets to a point—Akira's tears finally start pouring out. He feels like he's getting haunted, by the ghost of his feelings and someone he cherished. He cries and cries, breathing getting uneven and he feels his chest tightening up. It gets harder to breathe, and his vision gets blurrier.
Oh, how he wishes he could just find peace—to end this state of feeling dead while living. It's terrible, his heart aches, and there will never be a cure.