Chapter Text
The first time Iwai sends Akira out to make deals with gangsters, he worries that he’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to this kid. A month later he realizes how goddamn arrogant that is; Akira Kurusu has lived a lifetime of the bad and unlucky. A petty thug like Iwai doesn't even rank.
Two months later, Iwai wonders if it isn’t the other way around. If this kid isn’t his albatross, a harbinger of destruction. A spider in the evening.
Iwai doesn’t know many fairytales, but he does know that there are spirits that wander villages at dusk, bearing blocks of tofu and jugs of wine. He thinks someone should write a new story about boys who carry cats around in bags and show up as soon as the sun disappears. A myth about softly wild curls and a smile like the thrust of knife, a pretty mouth and nine lives. Creatures that cast a spell that anchors in your guts and twists tighter and tighter until they are all you think about.
Iwai doesn't date kids.
Obviously. He’s a grown-ass man. He’s got a kid of his own. And his last job had put him in contact with every sort of human filth in the business; he’s seen the creeps who go after the younger girls at the clubs. He’s out of that game now. Done. Straight edge.
This little fucker, though. Cruising in with his noisy friend and standing there with his hands in his pockets looking around Untouchable like this is the third gun shop he’s visited today and not even the best, all untucked shirt and hipster glasses and flickering smile. Iwai sells him a couple replica blades and pistols and figures that’s the last he’ll ever see of him. He’ll fuck around with his friends a little and then lose interest, like most kids he gets in here.
Instead he’s back the following week, carrying that cat with the eerily sentient blue eyes, leaning on the counter and telling him with a feverish glow that he’s an enthusiast.
Iwai should have just banned him there and then. That’s another one of his rules. He doesn’t date kids, and he doesn’t go looking for trouble.
Instead Iwai starts expecting him. Every few weeks he shows up at the door, like a cable bill. Coming in to unload a bunch of old stuff and buy up the new stock. Iwai has no idea where he gets the cash or why he needs so many fake swords. And the stuff he brings—
“Where do you get this shit?” he asks him, when he puts a fucking morningstar on the counter.
He shrugs. “Found it.”
Their relationship is going to stay strictly professional, of course. That’s what Iwai tells himself, until the little brat starts to push.
It isn’t really his fault. Iwai shows his ass with that favor he asks for, but the detectives have him up against a wall, and he isn’t as good under pressure as he used to be. Middle age is getting to him. Or maybe he’s just out of practice with almost getting killed.
Anyway. Iwai tells Akira not to look in the bag, he looks in the bag. He’s got guts, this kid. Gotta give him that much.
And he’s got a mouth on him. And a little blooming smirk that lights him up all the way to his eyes, cutting apart the blasé mask like a curtain pulled back from a stage. Iwai tries to keep his mind on the job. That’s good advice no matter what business you’re in. He gives him busy work in the shop, dusting and filing and unpacking new stock. And the occasional side job.
He’s a good worker—quick, efficient, eager to pick up new skills. Surprisingly good company, ready to take orders and not ask questions, until he does. He pushes and it pisses Iwai off, but it also turns him on.
Iwai could have just left it there, though. If it hadn’t been for the dress.
It’s not so much that boys in skirts does it for him. It does, but so do a lot of things. It’s just another piece in the 3-D model puzzle that is Akira Kurusu. Buys tons of fake weapons, carries around a cat in his school bag, smiles like a laser-cut. Befriends ex yakuza, works nights at gay bars, wears dresses.
Iwai does a little research.
Akira has a criminal record, which is less of a surprise than it should be. Apparently he accosted some guy and his girlfriend on the street, completely unprovoked. Sounds bogus to Iwai, but nobody asked him.
He also attends Shujin Academy, the first place one of those Phantom Thieves calling cards showed up. Iwai isn’t deep in popular culture, but even he’s heard of them. Kaoru’s a fan, and as much as Iwai doesn’t love him idolizing vigilantes, it seems like these so-called defenders of justice only go after abusers, white-collar criminals, and idiot upstarts like Kaneshiro. It takes a real piece of work to grift high school kids.
Iwai looks back through his account logs and finds the first transaction Akira ever made. About three weeks before that pervert gym coach resigned. But what does that actually mean? A high school kid starts buying fake weapons shortly before a vigilante group begins mysteriously forcing criminals to repent? That’s barely a notable coincidence, let alone evidence.
If anything, Akira himself is more of a smoking gun.
The quiet confidence that no one his age should have, the moments of unexpected proficiencies. When Iwai was 17 he was a disaster, brash and loud and self-centered, every move calculated to cover up how afraid he was of everything. The world was out to get him, so he was going to get the world first.
Also Akira sells Iwai the weirdest shit. It bares repeating. Bits of broken armor, empty picture frames, combination locks, scrap computer parts. Iwai buys stuff that has absolutely no resale value, if only to see what the kid brings him next. Where does a high schooler get stuff like this? It’s like he plucked it out of thin air.
And there’s the times he’s seen him skulking outside the shop after hours. Always at the intersection of the same two alleys, always for only a few minutes at a time. Iwai can’t call to mind any specific instances, and he can’t remember what Akira does when he’s there. Searching for the memory is like trying to pick up a coin lying flat on a counter—his fingers are too big and clumsy to catch hold. Actually, now that he ponders it, it might not even be Akira at all.
But whether he’s an infamous criminal or not, Iwai sends him a dress. A calling card of his own. Lala helps him pick it out, and although she doesn’t say anything outright, Iwai can tells she knows who it’s for. She doesn’t tell him not to do it, just says, “Don’t get in over your head, Mune-kun,” like they’re sixteen again and sharing a cigarette behind the school.
“Never,” Iwai promises, and her nostrils flare. She can smell the bullshit on him.