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Progression isn't linear. Goro's psychiatrist had told him that a lot in rehab. "Progression isn't linear", as in: "you will hurt people in your journey to recover". It didn't take him long to memorize those words, but it took him a while to stop misinterpreting them. She didn't mean that he was going to hurt others. She only meant that there was a risk he'd hurt himself. "Progression isn't linear", as in: "you're going to fuck up".
When he left, those words were like an anchor. All through living with the Yoshizawas, to finding his own place, to reconnecting with the phantom thieves, he'd kept those words in mind.
He'd said those words to himself after bad days -- days where he snapped at Yoshizawa or bitten into his arm till it bled. He'd said those words to Kurusu on sleepless nights -- nights where the numbness takes over and not even shared body heat can warm feeling back into their bones. He'd said those words so much that some days they lose meaning and become a fallacy, a pointless goal to strive toward in the aftermath of downfall. Regardless of usage, he remembers the phrase well.
But it's hard to remember things when you're bleeding onto the bathroom tiles of your shared apartment. It's hard to remember that this is all a part of recovery when he knows he looks like his mother, and had always known he'd meet the same fate.
What was he good for, anyway?? Taking up space in Kurusu's apartment? Stealing air from those who deserved to breathe more? Keeping the people in his life from having more time for the things they actually liked doing? Or maybe he did have a purpose, just like his mother's: usage. He'd been adored as the Detective Prince; was that what he was good for? Was he meant to just be put on display for others to gawk at? There had to be some reason that his mother's genetics won out over Shido's.
Well, he wasn't much use anymore: he couldn't take the spotlight at this point, and Kurusu -- in all his brainless sentimentality -- would never allow Goro to follow anywhere close to his mother's footsteps in that regard.
So here he was. Following her in the only other way he could remember.
It was strange to die once already. It was even stranger to die a second time and then remember waking up after the first. The blood loss was never pleasant, and the slow shutdown of all his internal systems wasn't exactly fun either. He was pretty sure he stopped registering time passing a while ago. Not that he could really say how long. He'd laugh at the irony if his entire body didn't feel like dead weight. Okay now that one was just a dumb pun; Kurusu might've been proud of that one if he'd heard it. Get it? Dead? He'll shut up now, like he should've at the start.
Speaking of Kurusu... He'd be the one to find Goro, right?? Maybe Goro should've written a note... Or locked the door before slicing his arms open. God, he couldn't even do this correctly. Well, he was sure Kurusu would get over it... There were plenty of other nicer, prettier, smarter, and morally better people out there to help him recover; Goro would just be a blip in a year or so's time. The big issue with the first time he died was that Kurusu still had hope, so this was probably better. Seeing it first-hand would feel like relief, Goro was sure.
He heard something from the hallway, but didn't move. Probably wasn't even real; his meds hadn't been working correctly for a week or so.
... Shit, was that why he was here? This wasn't even his choice, was it?? Always a slave to his emotions, the little crow was. It'd be cute if it weren't pathetic.
Whatever. He was here now. His vision was blurry. Red dripped down onto the white floor and he was powerless to stop it. The sound was closer. Goro didn't look. He couldn't look. He was tired. So tired...
What a pathetic way to go. "Progression isn't linear", she'd said. No, his progression was closer to a hike and then a swan dive off the peak. There was an irony to that. Something, something, ruining Shido after his election. Goro was aware; he didn't need his waning consciousness to rub it in.
... The sound was panicked. Something was touching his shoulder. A hand?? Didn't matter; it wasn't real. Kurusu wouldn't be back for another hour. He'd checked before he'd...
... No. No he'd been found. He'd been found and his pulse was still going and he wanted to cry even though he couldn't because god dammit. Of course. He can't do a damn thing right -- not one, not a single thing -- not even dying, for as hard as he'd tried. He can't even give up correctly.
Oh well. Kurusu didn't trust the government; he'd call Takemi instead, Takemi would take too long, and Goro would die in the presence of the only living person he could say he loved. It was selfish. It was cruel. But since when was he anything other than either of those?
He let his eyes close, hopefully for the last time. Kurusu would get over it. Sakura and Okumura could be free. Those he hurt could rest. Goro wouldn't take up air anymore.
Progression isn't linear. Progression isn't linear. Progression is downward. Progression is hope and then a dip and then love and then joy and then touch and then bleeding out on the bathroom floor of your boyfriend's apartment and then--
-- waking up in a clinic, with a soft weight on one hand and an IV connected to the other.
Waking up in a clinic and looking to the side, seeing a mop of messy, black hair resting on the bed near your arm when you were supposed to be dead. Messy hair that, just this morning, had been interlaced with his hands. Just this morning...
... Now, Goro had the energy to cry. So he did. Ugly and vulnerable and quiet as he pressed his face into Akira's hair, trying to apologize. Akira shouldn't've had to see that. Akira should've found out from a note, or a text, or a kiss goodbye at the door that felt a little too final. Not first-hand. Never like that.
As he sniffled, Goro felt a gentle squeeze on his hand. He pulled away, watching as Akira finally turned to look at him with tired eyes.
He'd felt sorry before, but now he just felt disgusting. Eyebags and gunmetal grey eyes that had lost their shine, missing glasses that said more than any number of words could, lips worn from chewing and hair worn from pulling. And all that stress was Goro's fault. Because he'd tried to...
...
Akira spoke up first out of the two of them, shockingly predictable for once. His question was simple enough. "Why?", He asked, voice strained from what was either crying or shouting from the sound of it.
Goro shrugged, hands twitching at his sides in a desire to move and wipe away his idiotic tears. "Why not? I had nothing else to do."
He knew Akira wouldn't take that answer as the final one. Hell, from the small stack of bags near the door, none of the thieves would. But it was the answer that Akechi was willing to give at the moment, so it was the answer that Akira was going to get.
Seeming to understand as much, Akira nodded and put his head back down, rubbing gentle circles into the back of Goro's hand as they fell back into silence. They'd figure this out. Akira would insist this was just a simple pitfall; that it hurt so much because Goro had come so far already, and that someday he'd be well enough to forget all this for a day. That was what Goro would hope for. That's all he could hope for, really.
Progression isn't linear. Sometimes it looks like cooking with someone and marathons of childhood shows, and other times it looks like new scars and heartrate monitors. But it's all progression, in some way. Even if it's sad. Even if it's painful.
... This bed was uncomfortable. Goro hoped he could go back home soon.