InsaneJournal

Persona 3 Fic: A Pound of Flesh
Title: A Pound of Flesh
Fandom: Persona 3
Characters: Shinjiro, Akihiko, Mitsuru
Rating: PG
Length: 1011
Warnings: Spoilers for September-ish, Shinjiro's attitude. This isn't a mug-of-cocoa fic.
A/N: Several: 1) This is canon. When was the last time I did that? 2) I've wanted to write this piece for a long time. 3) It's spawned of noticing the fact that almost all of Castor's attacks cost Shinjiro hit points, and even though he was my effing tank, I did have Aki and Mitsuru Dia-bombing him every five minutes because of that. I thought it would be interesting to look at that in terms of the character himself, rather than in a "Look, gameplay mechanics" way.



It almost feels like old times—Mitsuru as cool as ice and her boot-heels clicking fast on the hallway floor, Aki all but sprinting toward the next Shadow—and he’s feeling…okay. Not great, but since when has that ever been true? Not for years. The hammer’s good and heavy in his hand, and he slept last night, better than he expected. Better, at least, than nights before.

It almost feels like old times until it’s time to call Castor. His stomach lurches at the thought, at the need, but just beating on this damn thing isn’t working, and he knows that this is what his Persona does. Does, and does well, and the damn Shadow just iced the hell out of Akihiko. He’s not going to stand for that.

He’s certain he’ll have to fight to get his arm up, to pull the trigger—and he’s thought about a real one, fuck, a hundred times, but why make your death a goddamn mess when your life already is one and the pills will do it anyway, in time—but his hand does what it remembers. The barrel of the Evoker is cool on his temple; there’s a moment of quiet, of sheer calm, so perfect—that half a breath between contact and the slow squeeze of his index finger—it feels good. He’s missed that. It’s nothing like the dull silence the drugs bring, where it feels like layers and layers of brick and fiberglass foam, dense, close, like walking between too many buildings. This is—it’s like swimming. He remembers that, Mitsuru’s dad’s pool, when they were thirteen—suspended in the middle of the deep end, everything blue and clear and still. Perfect and nothing and everything. He pulls the trigger, and everything changes.

Castor doesn’t come from him anymore—he comes through, and the only reason Shinjiro doesn’t scream is because he has no breath for it. Like before, the Shadow falls, crushed and crumpled, but now Shinjiro feels it, too. Going back in, it isn’t any better—he is lanced himself, cut, but there’s no blood, somehow. Mitsuru’s picking up Akihiko, and Minato’s already looking around the next corner—no one sees how he’s leaning on his hammer, how his other hand still feels for red wetness between his ribs. There’s nothing, no mark, and he’s not hurt, though it hurts, so he clamps his teeth down and follows, glad Akihiko’s used to seeing this look on his face.

The next battle feels the same. The third is worse because it takes a while, and every time Castor lands a blow, it feels like he’s cutting the meat from Shinjiro’s bones. Not like there’s much of that, anyway. Akihiko hits him in the back with Dia as they round another corner, and he can’t bring himself to argue because the assault doesn’t stop. Castor seems stronger, more powerful, more fierce, and it’s helping the team so much—even Mitsuru says something about it. And he can’t quit, not again, and pride won’t let him take off early, not while Aki’s still punching. So he lets Castor have his pound of flesh, lets him get even, because those pills are still in his pocket, and they’ll stay there, and it doesn’t matter if neither of them like it.

It’s Mitsuru who calls an end to the night. He tries not to look happy, and he can feel Castor twist, can feel him pull and thrash at the thought, because if he leaves the dorm tomorrow, he’ll make sure Castor’s muted, muffled, bound before he goes anywhere else. But when he hides a limp down the school stairs, watches the sickly green color shift to the black and blue of proper night while he can feel the bruises shift and pool on his chest, he’s pretty certain he’s not going anywhere come morning.

Back in the dorm, he takes off his coat, his shirt, and the skin is mottled purple. It doesn’t hurt to the touch, not as much as it should, anyway, but it aches from the inside out. His thighs look the same, and he could swear one of the marks is curved like a horseshoe, but when he bends closer to see, there’s a knock at the door. He jumps, yanks his pants back up, throws one of Aki’s t-shirts on. At least his arms aren’t too bruised—not any different than normal—and he tugs the door open a crack.

Akihiko is yawning, and he snaps his jaw closed fast, like there’s something wrong with being tired at two a.m.

“Hey,” he says. And he just stands there, looking just to the left of Shinjiro’s face. This again.

Shinjiro sighs. He wants to tell Aki to go sleep in his own bed, but he doesn’t want him to actually do it. What he says instead is, “Give me a minute.”

Akihiko’s mouth almost turns up at the corners before he says he’s going to brush his teeth, and Shinjiro closes the door behind him. With the t-shirt and the flannel pants—he’s pretty sure those are Mitsuru’s, because Aki sleeps in his underwear, and the pants are a little short, not quite hitting his ankles with their red-checkered hems—there’s no visible sign of the war that’s playing out on his body. He leaves the door ajar but turns the lights off, climbs into bed feeling spear-tipped and stampeded from his neck to knees. He pulls the blankets up, puts himself face-down, and hopes he passes out before Aki comes in.

He’s never that lucky.

Akihiko’s arm makes him ache where it’s draped over his back, and it’s too warm—Aki’s always too warm—but Castor quiets for a moment. Shinjiro can feel the arch of the horse’s neck, the half-turn, the listening. And he can’t feel Polydeuces anymore—everything too dulled now—but Castor can. He shifts an inch closer, lets Aki curl that arm over his ribs, where the bone feels raw beneath the skin. That’s what he can feel. And so he will.