The bell above the door rang, faint and lonely, its sound swallowed by the quiet of the night. Outside, the street was a corpse of itself—no car engines, no chatter, not even a dog barking. Just silence, as if the whole world had gone to sleep and left this one place breathing.
Akuma pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The bar was dim, the lamps overhead throwing long shadows across the wood-panel walls. The smell of tobacco smoke clung to the air, mixing with the faint sweetness of spilled liquor. The bartender raised his head, his eyes going wide for a moment in surprise, then softening into the warm recognition of someone welcoming back a ghost.
"… The usual?" the bartender asked, his voice low and steady, the tone of a man who'd known Akuma in better years.
Akuma only nodded, slipping his hat off and laying it gently atop the counter. His body carried itself with that same flatness he always did—no excess movement, no waste, just heavy intent. He slid onto the stool beside Lucien, who sat alone, half a bottle of bourbon at his side, a glass dangling in his hand.
Lucien looked half-drunk, but that never dulled him. In fact, the slight slur in his voice only thickened his French accent, made it silkier, more arrogant, more alive. He turned, grin wide, eyes gleaming.
"Ah, mon ami… I was wondering if you'd come. Et voilà, here you are."
Akuma sighed, rubbing at his temples as the bartender placed the bottle of whiskey down before him.
"You got a lot of nerve calling me out to drink after the stunt you pulled earlier," he muttered, voice flat, low, carrying the kind of weight that didn't need volume to hit hard.
Lucien just chuckled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "I knew you'd come. So… why not drink? For everything's sake."
Akuma didn't answer. He reached for the bottle, poured, and raised the shot glass. The whiskey burned on his tongue, slid down his throat like fire wrapped in velvet. It hit his stomach heavy, warm, and he exhaled slow, letting out the sigh of a man loosening a knot inside his chest.
"…I hope you know you deserved that punch."
Lucien tilted his head, smile sharp and sly. "Did I now, mon ami?"
Akuma set his glass down, hard enough that it clicked against the counter. "I know why you did it. But even if your intentions were good… it still pissed me off."
Lucien laughed again, low and bitter this time, before drawing in a deep, shaky breath. The playfulness bled out of him for just a second, leaving only the tired man beneath the show.
"I hate it too," he muttered, eyes fixed on the bourbon bottle. "But… it is the best I can do. For both of you… the tragedy of her tale ended today."
Akuma's jaw clenched. He poured another shot, downed it, and let the silence stretch long enough that Lucien's words lingered between them like smoke. Finally, he growled out:
"You think I'll just nod and let you say shit like that?"
Lucien blinked—then yelped as Akuma smacked him hard at the back of the head.
"—ow! What the hell was that for?"
"… You're focusing on the tragedy of her story too much," Akuma muttered, pouring again, though this time he reached over and splashed whiskey into Lucien's empty glass too. He shoved it toward him. "… So much that you're forgetting everything else."
Lucien stilled. His fingers hovered over the glass but didn't pick it up. His eyes fell instead to the reflection staring back at him from the liquor's surface.
Akuma's voice stayed low, heavy but steady.
"The smiles you shared. The tears you both shed. The moments—good or bad—you gave each other. You want to reduce it to tragedy? Fine. But I won't." He took his own glass in hand, his knuckles pale in the lamplight. "… I'll make sure neither of you forgets any of it. Not while I'm still here."
Lucien's teeth dug into his lip. His hand trembled against the glass. For once, his smirk slipped, replaced by the raw bite of someone struggling to keep composure intact.
And then Akuma, of all people, leaned back and whispered, his Japanese roughened by a rusty attempt at Lucien's tongue:
"… You did a wonderful job, Lucien. The story you made with her is beautiful. C'est magnifique as you would say."
Lucien's head snapped up. For a beat, there was silence—then laughter, sharp and ragged, broke from his chest. "—mon dieu! That accent! Truly, I cannot decide if it is a compliment or a crime!"
"Fuck off," Akuma muttered, deadpan, raising his glass.
Their rims clicked. Whiskey and bourbon met. They drank. For the future.
The bar filled with a brief warmth—the kind only liquor, old grudges, and fractured friendship could create. They laughed again, softer this time, the sound hollow but honest. It almost felt like the old days. Almost.
And then Lucien, drunk enough to lose his filter, dropped the words like a stone:
"… By the way, Teio is leaving my team. Oh, and the academy too."
Akuma froze, his glass halfway to his lips. "… Hm?"
Lucien leaned back, smirk tugging faintly at his lips, but his eyes carried no amusement. "She told me tonight. She wants to join you."
"… What? But I thought she loved it there."
"She did." Lucien swirled his bourbon. "But she always envied McQueen. Envious that it was you, not I, who guided her. Today was simply the final push." He tipped his glass, downing what was left. "She's leaving my side… to stand at yours."
The stool screeched as Akuma turned on him, eyes narrowed, voice a low growl. "WHAT!? I can't take any more Umas!"
Lucien burst out laughing. "Too bad! You're too popular for your own good, mon ami." His laughter faded into a wry sigh, his head tilting back to stare at the smoke-stained ceiling. "… Besides, you'll need all the help you can get, if you ever want to realize that dream of yours."
Akuma's hands tightened into fists. Slowly, though, the anger drained into resignation, and his expression softened. He exhaled, steady. "… Keep warming that throne for me."
Lucien's smile returned, sharp and proud. "I will, mon ami. So claim it—before I etch my name on it permanently."
Another toast. Another clink. Another drink swallowed down with laughter—ragged, bitter, but alive.
And as the bottle ran low, Akuma leaned back, gaze sharp once more. "Oh. By the way… you're not forgiven."
Lucien nearly spit his drink, whipping his head toward him. "Quoi!? What!?"
Akuma only smirked, the faintest shadow of a grin breaking through the flatness of his stare. "… Don't push your luck."