STYTCHD with STYLE.

happy birthday, fuyuhiko!!! (no text drawing under cut!)

If  Togami  himself  called  for  it,  then,  surely  it  was  viable.

He  follows  where  his  fingers  had  prodded  him  towards,  placing  in  an  honest  amount  of  effort  into  properly  positioning  himself  onto  his  backside  despite  his  nauseating  vertigo.  His  arms  wrap  infirmly  around  his  neck,  though,  they  strengthen  their  grip  as  Byakuya  presumably  hoists  themselves  both  from  the  ground. 

"I  can  do  that.  .  ."  He  murmurs,  forehead  planted  against  the  crook  of  Togami's  neck.  Surely,  keeping  conversation  would  keep  his  consciousness  steady,  despite  the  potential  detriment  it  may  bring  the  person  carrying  him,  who  had  far  more  dire  things  to  place  his  focus  on.  "Shouldn't  we  alert  somebody.  .  .?"

... Does he even realize those almost-reassuring-words came out of his mouth? No, it doesn't seem he does. His mind is on other things: Being able to fire his weapon without dropping Naegi, keeping Naegi's mind stimulated so he doesn't black out, getting them out of this part of the city without getting noticed. Making it to a less-destroyed part of the city where they might have a chance of making contact, answering Makoto's stupid questions, thinking about how he can explain away why he let someone like Naegi Makoto ride on his back like a child.

Shouldn't we alert somebody? As if he didn't think of that already. "Do you think I'd be doing this if there was a less ridiculous solution?"

If Naegi blacked out, he was dead weight. If he was dead weight, he'd be harder to carry, and if the Monokumas found them... he'd have to put Naegi on the ground and stand over him while firing the hacking gun.

Aiming this thing while Naegi was on his back wasn't the best-case scenario, but it was manageable. The odds of one of those bears getting a stray shot in on something lying limp on the ground were significantly higher than getting a stray shot on a moving target.

... Not to mention the chance of Makoto's wound getting infected skyrocketed if he were to be placed on this filthy ground.

Makoto has to stay awake, and if that means entertaining his ridiculous questions, so be it. "There are no transmission stations."

He would tell Naegi to look for himself, but he can feel the other's face pressed into the crook of his neck... the act of being hauled upward likely isn't sitting well with the nausea and dizziness that blood loss can cause. He's probably trying to block out the world spinning around him. He'll give Makoto some time for those sensations to subside a bit before he moves again.

This place was uncomfortably barren... as if the Monokumas had just recently been back through to knock down any rebuilding that might have happened.

"There's a rendezvous point two kilometers north of here. Once we get there, we should be able to send a signal and get a helicopter."

Once they step out of this alley, they'll be exposed. With any luck, the Monokumas will have moved on... but who would be foolish enough to bet on luck after a night like this?

"Can you keep a lookout? Tell me if you see anything."

As if he'd miss a giant metal tower.

It's something for Makoto to do, something to keep his brain processing information, something to keep him from blacking out.

... And if Togami's locked in on following the path to the rendezvous point, there's a chance he might miss a Monokuma spotting them.

Running his finger across the trigger of his hacking gun and glancing down at the arms around his neck and the legs hooked over his arms to make sure they're as secure as half-dead-Naegi and has-other-things-to-deal-with Togami can make, he steps out of the alleyway.

He’ll  surely  thank  him  once  he’s  in  recovery.  but  an  end  to  this  disastrous  venture  needs  to  be  found,  first.  

“Mhm.  .  .”  He  agrees.

Makoto  peels  his  face  from  the  fabric  of  Togami’s  shirt,  lifting  his  chin  just  a  few  inches  from  it.

He  manages  to  somewhat  steady  his  vision,  locking  onto  the  scenery  to  their  left.  The  smoke  that  lazily  curls  upwards  from  the  asphalt  is  just  barely  visible  against  the  newly  found  moonlight  now  that  they  were  out  of  the  alleyway.  “Isss’  empty.  .  .”  Makoto  squints  his  eyes  just  a  little  more.  “That’s  not  a  good  thing,  is  it?”

Can  these  robots  smell  blood?  Most  likely.

It  was  difficult  to  imagine  them  functioning  as  they  were  initially  meant  to,  now  that  they  only  sought  blood.

❛  i don't believe you anymore.  ❜ ❛  i don't have anything left to give you.  ❜ ❛  i don't know how to forgive you.  ❜ ❛  i don't know how to stop loving you.  ❜ ❛  i don't know if i hate you or miss you.  ❜ ❛  i don't know how to act around you anymore.  ❜ ❛  i don't love you anymore.  ❜ ❛  i don't need your pity.  ❜ ❛  i don't need you to save me.  ❜ ❛  i don't recognize you anymore.  ❜ ❛  i don't think we can fix this.  ❜ ❛  i don't think i can survive losing you again.  ❜ ❛  i don't want to see you again.  ❜ ❛  i don't want your apology.  ❜ ❛  i don't want to be your second choice.  ❜ ❛  don't ask me to stay.  ❜ ❛  don't ask me to be okay with this.  ❜ ❛  don't come back to me just because you're lonely.  ❜ ❛  don't leave me here alone.  ❜ ❛  don't lie to me again.  ❜ ❛  don't love me only when it's convenient.  ❜ ❛  don't make me choose between you and myself.  ❜ ❛  don't make me hate you just so i can let you go.  ❜ ❛  don't pretend you're the only one who suffered.  ❜ ❛  don't say you love me unless you mean it.  ❜ ❛  don't tell me what to do.  ❜ ❛  don't tell me this was all for nothing.  ❜ ❛  don't touch me.  ❜ ❛  don't turn this around on me.  ❜ ❛  don't you dare hold my past against me.  ❜ ❛  you don't deserve me.  ❜ ❛  you don't get to decide when i'm done hurting.  ❜ ❛  you don't get to hurt me and call it love.  ❜ ❛  you don't get to mourn me after killing every part of me that loved you.  ❜ ❛  you don't get to rewrite what happened just because you regret it now.  ❜ ❛  you don't have to pretend you missed me.  ❜ ❛  you don't know how many times i waited for you.  ❜ ❛  you don't know what i gave up for you.  ❜ ❛  you don't understand what you did to me.  ❜ ❛  you don't understand how tired i am of being strong because of you.  ❜

'it's  no  where  vital.'  He  tells  himself,  trying  his  best  to  assist  the  removal  of  his  suit-jacket.

He  draws  in  a  breath,  or,  at  least,  he  tries—  as  it  catches  swiftly  within  his  throat.  As  much  as  adrenaline  aided  the  human  body  in  times  of  peril,  it  was  not  as  kind  in  its  aftermath.  That  much  had  been  evident  in  the  acceleratation  of  his  heart,  which  continued  to  threaten  his  ribcage  as  inevitable  panic  washes  over.

 He  allows  his  aching  eyes  to  shut,  his  eyelashes  becoming  mired  in  the  combination  of  the  sweat  and  dirt  that  stained  his  face.  While  that  new  sensation  takes  hold  of  his  attention  for  a  moment,  he  aims  to  shift  it  elsewhere;  To  the  dull  thrumming  in  his  head,  which  nearly  overlapped  the  rushing  of  blood  in  his  ears,  which  were  akin  to  that  of  a  rough  ocean's  current.

Essaying  the  calming  of  his  heart  through  focusing  on  it  seemed  to  have  worked  well  enough  to  allow  him  to  regain  somewhat  of  a  steady  composure.  (And  the  needed  stability  to  roll  the  cuffs  to  his  jacket  off  of  his  wrists.)

As if he were ever going to let go of Super High School Level Luck getting attacked by a wall, that he slowed down their mission, or that he was bleeding all over him. Takumi grits his teeth, sucking in a sharp intake of air as the warm liquid pools against his chest and stomach.

Fine. Things are easier when he does things on his own anyway. "... Don't move," he practically hissed as he brought Makoto to lean fully against him. He needs both his hands to wrap the tourniquet, and it doesn't look like his companion can keep himself upright. Their suits are both unsalvageable; what's a little more blood seeping through his shirt? "This is going to hurt until it goes numb."

If Munakata gives him flak for the suits, he'll tell him he'll leave Naegi behind and save the fabric next time. That's what Byakuya thinks to himself as he wraps the tie as tightly as he can above the gaping wound. Once the tie is secure, he slides a pen into the knotted tie and twists until the fabric is bound tightly enough to cut off circulation. That will keep him from bleeding out long enough for Byakuya to haul him to someone whose job it is to stitch up the incompetent.

Only now that the job is done does the heir take note of Makoto's slurred words and closed eyes. Don't you dare, he thinks to himself as he grasps hold of both of Makoto's shoulders.

 Well,  if  there’s  one  thing  he  does  without  much  hesitancy,  it’s  the  ability  to  place  an  unshaken  faith  in  his  peers.

He  coughs,  then,  he  sputters:  “O—Okay.  .  .”  His  eyes,  dulled  in  color  and  glazed  over,  do  their  best  to  keep  a  proper  lock  on  Byakuya’s.  “I  believe  you,  Togami-kun.  .  .  Don’  worree.  .  .”  He  slurs,  face  planted  into  the  other's  similarly  bloodied  uniform:  Just  below  the  shoulder.  "m'  not  going  anywhere.  .  .  I  promise."

He's  disoriented,  that's  a  fact  that  in  the  present  moment,  cannot  be  altered.  Yet,  perhaps  through  a  subconscious  effort,  he  doesn't  allow  his  cognizance  to  wane.

His hand remains clasped tightly on Makoto's shoulder as he surveys their surroundings. It's only a matter of time before those bears close in on them, and when they do...

Cold eyes stare down at the glazed eyes and the body listlessly leaning against his own. He doubts Makoto can stand on his own for long, much less cross the distance from this filthy alleyway to the rendezvous point, and if they were found on the way...

There was only one way for Byakuya to get Makoto out of this situation in one piece. He supposed it was only a matter of time before he started literally carrying this foundation (as unsightly an image as that brought to mind).

"... Get on my back," he orders as he nudges Makoto's blood-soaked body behind him. He wasn't sure Makoto could walk, let alone run. Byakuya had to carry him... and if Makoto was on his back, the heir would have some access to his hands. If the Monokumas caught them, he would be able to fire the hacking gun-- so long as Naegi could hang on long enough for Byakuya to fire.

Gritting his teeth, he lowers himself enough for Makoto to simply lean forward and press his chest into Byakuya's back (momentarily regretting choosing his once-classmate's life over the topsuit lying on the ground).

"You don't have to do anything unless we're spotted. If they find us, you've got to hold on long enough for me to fire." Until then, Byakuya can hook his arms around Naegi's knees and keep him secured. It's only when he needs those arms that he runs the risk of having Naegi topple to the ground.

If  Togami  himself  called  for  it,  then,  surely  it  was  viable.

He  follows  where  his  fingers  had  prodded  him  towards,  placing  in  an  honest  amount  of  effort  into  properly  positioning  himself  onto  his  backside  despite  his  nauseating  vertigo.  His  arms  wrap  infirmly  around  his  neck,  though,  they  strengthen  their  grip  as  Byakuya  presumably  hoists  themselves  both  from  the  ground. 

"I  can  do  that.  .  ."  He  murmurs,  forehead  planted  against  the  crook  of  Togami's  neck.  Surely,  keeping  conversation  would  keep  his  consciousness  steady,  despite  the  potential  detriment  it  may  bring  the  person  carrying  him,  who  had  far  more  dire  things  to  place  his  focus  on.  "Shouldn't  we  alert  somebody.  .  .?"

'it's  no  where  vital.'  He  tells  himself,  trying  his  best  to  assist  the  removal  of  his  suit-jacket.

He  draws  in  a  breath,  or,  at  least,  he  tries—  as  it  catches  swiftly  within  his  throat.  As  much  as  adrenaline  aided  the  human  body  in  times  of  peril,  it  was  not  as  kind  in  its  aftermath.  That  much  had  been  evident  in  the  acceleratation  of  his  heart,  which  continued  to  threaten  his  ribcage  as  inevitable  panic  washes  over.

 He  allows  his  aching  eyes  to  shut,  his  eyelashes  becoming  mired  in  the  combination  of  the  sweat  and  dirt  that  stained  his  face.  While  that  new  sensation  takes  hold  of  his  attention  for  a  moment,  he  aims  to  shift  it  elsewhere;  To  the  dull  thrumming  in  his  head,  which  nearly  overlapped  the  rushing  of  blood  in  his  ears,  which  were  akin  to  that  of  a  rough  ocean's  current.

Essaying  the  calming  of  his  heart  through  focusing  on  it  seemed  to  have  worked  well  enough  to  allow  him  to  regain  somewhat  of  a  steady  composure.  (And  the  needed  stability  to  roll  the  cuffs  to  his  jacket  off  of  his  wrists.)

As if he were ever going to let go of Super High School Level Luck getting attacked by a wall, that he slowed down their mission, or that he was bleeding all over him. Takumi grits his teeth, sucking in a sharp intake of air as the warm liquid pools against his chest and stomach.

Fine. Things are easier when he does things on his own anyway. "... Don't move," he practically hissed as he brought Makoto to lean fully against him. He needs both his hands to wrap the tourniquet, and it doesn't look like his companion can keep himself upright. Their suits are both unsalvageable; what's a little more blood seeping through his shirt? "This is going to hurt until it goes numb."

If Munakata gives him flak for the suits, he'll tell him he'll leave Naegi behind and save the fabric next time. That's what Byakuya thinks to himself as he wraps the tie as tightly as he can above the gaping wound. Once the tie is secure, he slides a pen into the knotted tie and twists until the fabric is bound tightly enough to cut off circulation. That will keep him from bleeding out long enough for Byakuya to haul him to someone whose job it is to stitch up the incompetent.

Only now that the job is done does the heir take note of Makoto's slurred words and closed eyes. Don't you dare, he thinks to himself as he grasps hold of both of Makoto's shoulders.

 Well,  if  there’s  one  thing  he  does  without  much  hesitancy,  it’s  the  ability  to  place  an  unshaken  faith  in  his  peers.

He  coughs,  then,  he  sputters:  “O—Okay.  .  .”  His  eyes,  dulled  in  color  and  glazed  over,  do  their  best  to  keep  a  proper  lock  on  Byakuya’s.  “I  believe  you,  Togami-kun.  .  .  Don’  worree.  .  .”  He  slurs,  face  planted  into  the  other's  similarly  bloodied  uniform:  Just  below  the  shoulder.  "m'  not  going  anywhere.  .  .  I  promise."

He's  disoriented,  that's  a  fact  that  in  the  present  moment,  cannot  be  altered.  Yet,  perhaps  through  a  subconscious  effort,  he  doesn't  allow  his  cognizance  to  wane.

ㅤ ㅤ

ㅤNaegi  had  never  been  someone  with  a  particularly  high  pain  tolerance,  and  despite  his  title,  he  most  definitely  was  not  built  for  the  circumstances  of  the  current  state  of  the  world.

ㅤ His  suit-jacket,  which  had  snagged  against  a  cut  of  metal  embedded  into  the  remains  of  a  building,  had  it's  fabric  torn  with  a  clean  cut  as  a  result.  And,  in  the  process,  had  lacerated  his  flesh  beneath  as  well.

ㅤ And  all  though  he's  in  a  decent  amount  of  pain,  the  true  anxiety  that  current  eats  at  him  is  the  inevitable  chewing-out  he'll  receive  once  his  wound  is  sterilized  and  bandaged.  His  suit  had  been  tailored-made  for  him  by  the  Foundation,  as  most  formal  wear  was  difficult  to  come  across  during  the  apocalypse.  It  wasn't  something  thread-work  could  fix,  either,  had  they  managed  to  somehow  wash  the  blood  out.  .  .  God  forbid  his  apparel  be  tacky,  after  all. 

"It's better to be cut than impaled. You'll probably bleed out any chance of infection," the heir explains (if that's supposed to be comforting, his tone is doing an awful job conveying it) as he loosens the tie around his neck. "It's going to need stitches."

That's all he was willing to say. Makoto was naive, but he wasn't a complete idiot; he didn't need to be told he was losing a lot of blood... he didn't need to be told he could lose consciousness from this amount of blood loss if they didn't stop the blood from flowing so freely. Fortunately, fashioning a tournequette wasn't difficult with the proper tools.

For a second or so, Byakuya thinks Makoto can see what he's attempting by taking off his tie and taking the fountain pen out of his coat pocket. For that second or so, he thinks that's why his companion says he should take his jacket off. That is... until he catches that distant, almost dumbfounded look in Makoto's eyes.

It's not his arm he's worried about-- or it's not the thing he's most worried about.

'it's  no  where  vital.'  He  tells  himself,  trying  his  best  to  assist  the  removal  of  his  suit-jacket.

He  draws  in  a  breath,  or,  at  least,  he  tries—  as  it  catches  swiftly  within  his  throat.  As  much  as  adrenaline  aided  the  human  body  in  times  of  peril,  it  was  not  as  kind  in  its  aftermath.  That  much  had  been  evident  in  the  acceleratation  of  his  heart,  which  continued  to  threaten  his  ribcage  as  inevitable  panic  washes  over.

 He  allows  his  aching  eyes  to  shut,  his  eyelashes  becoming  mired  in  the  combination  of  the  sweat  and  dirt  that  stained  his  face.  While  that  new  sensation  takes  hold  of  his  attention  for  a  moment,  he  aims  to  shift  it  elsewhere;  To  the  dull  thrumming  in  his  head,  which  nearly  overlapped  the  rushing  of  blood  in  his  ears,  which  were  akin  to  that  of  a  rough  ocean's  current.

Essaying  the  calming  of  his  heart  through  focusing  on  it  seemed  to  have  worked  well  enough  to  allow  him  to  regain  somewhat  of  a  steady  composure.  (And  the  needed  stability  to  roll  the  cuffs  to  his  jacket  off  of  his  wrists.)