#thpff

As Kyoko ponders where to start, she quietly reflects: This entire situation is less than ideal.

Even with the hurdle of their suspicion just barely cleared, she could feel their eyes watching her, trained like sniper scopes on her every move. Scanning for the slightest faltering, the barest indication that could be taken for guilt. She’d managed to divert them enough by giving just enough reason that she wasn’t as suspicious as anyone else, but none of that served to clear her name entirely; if she let them linger too long and realize that, all her hard work would be undone.

At best, it’s ambiguous that I was involved with the murder of Mondo and Celeste. At worst, I’m still a suspect for the attempted murder of Byakuya. She casts a quick glance to the boy in question, whose pale, fogged-ice eyes glare right back, pupils twitching and uneasy. A cornered, half-blinded cat. Considering Makoto’s current volatility, that’s not an idea I can let take root.

A quiet breath leaves her, not nearly audible enough to be a sigh. If she’d known this was going to happen, she wouldn’t have tried passing off so much of the responsibility to Makoto in the first place. Regardless of how useful he was - a medium that both served as a link to the rest of the group, and at the same time, a reliable buffer - she underestimated just how emotional he could be. How easily swayed by sympathy. I thought Byakuya was his only weakness. I didn’t realize that he still cared so much about everyone else.

She clenches her left hand as she thinks this, curling the fingers despite the stiffness and the bone-deep ache radiating out from her middle knuckles, and lets the bloom of pain wipe away the irritation. Regrets could come later; right now, she needed to focus.

“To start off, let’s establish something right now. I don’t believe Toko was involved in any of the deaths at all.” She finally decides. As expected, there’s a small chorus of surprise, as both Toko’s and Byakuya’s heads whip to her almost simultaneously, one wary, the other disbelieving, but both equally shocked.

“How can you be so sure?” Byakuya demands. “It’s her scissors on Celeste’s body-”

“Syo’s scissors,” She corrects calmly, and watches from the corner of her eye as Toko shoves her face into what was left of her hair, her exposed forehead turning pink. Good - as troublesome as the author was, Kyoko couldn’t be picky about allies right now. “And as I said before, those aren’t the murder weapon. They were likely placed there as a red herring.”

“Don’t argue semantics with me right now.” He snaps. “The point is, the only person who could have put those there was her, whichever one of her, it doesn’t matter. You’ve established that yourself. What reason would she have to do that, if she wasn’t involved? At the very least, as an accomplice?”

His skepticism is understandable. His own history with Toko aside, it wasn’t as if Toko wouldn’t be capable of it, as they’d seen before. And it wasn’t as if she wouldn’t have a motive, either.

“If she - Syo - is an accomplice, then it probably wasn’t planned from the beginning. But I don’t think Toko is directly involved. It’s likely she walked into the art room and fainted at the sight of blood, and that’s when Syo appeared. After all,” And she turns to Toko. “You cede control whenever you become overwhelmed, don’t you?”

It was an easy thing to figure out if the right details were noticed. Toko Fukawa, asocial, paranoid, and the Ultimate Writer, had rather crippling cases of aquaphobia and hemophobia, and was prone to fainting. The aquaphobia was obvious upon reading her works; someone raised in a prefecture with enough fishing piers to provide material for her novels, and yet despite the subject of the romance being a fisherman, water is always being portrayed as something to avoid. A danger that separates the characters and threatens to rip them apart. That, in combination with her apparent aversion to washing, was telling enough.

The hemophobia was even more obvious than that. Toko had admitted it herself during the previous investigation, and to Byakuya, no less. His brow twists as he recalls it, along with all the unpleasant memories it dredged.

Toko squirms under her gaze, but meets her eyes bravely. “Y-yeah. That’s right.” She manages. “But, I-I’ve been getting better! Sh-she never comes out anymore…I-I just let my guard d-down…” She twitches as she says this, turning to Byakuya, her eagerness clear.

Byakuya continues staring resolutely at Kyoko, as if he hadn’t heard anything at all.

“So you’re suggesting that the sight of blood in the art room led to her fainting, and that’s when Syo appeared?” He scoffs. “What a convenient excuse. Especially considering how she was able to desecrate a corpse during the last case.”

“I thought you might say that. And it is true that she said she’d been training to overcome that fear. But we have to remember it’s not fear that determines whether or not Syo can appear, but mental exhaustion or shock. Otherwise, we might’ve met Syo much sooner.

“Let me explain,” She continues, hiding her exasperation with another, not-quite sigh as Byakuya opens his mouth to argue once more. “In both cases that we know so far, Syo only appeared after a series of highly stressful events and when Toko was trying to maintain composure. The first time, she had that confrontation with you in the library, and was already in a state of mental disarray when she found Chihiro, who was covered by a tarp at the time. She collapsed rather promptly after staging the scene. This time, she went to warn people of your situation, and then was greeted with the sight of Mondo’s and Celeste’s bodies. That kind of scene would shock anyone.”

His mouth snaps shut with a frustrated click, lips pulling into a frown. “You’re incredibly intent on defending her.”

“I’m just trying to keep the air clear.” She replies, the perfect image of casualness. “With the position I’m in right now, I’d rather not let anyone’s personal feelings interfere.” And Makoto blinks at that, face twisting openly with guilt. Byakuya’s frown deepens at the word ‘personal’. “On the contrary. Is there a reason why you’re so intent on labeling Toko as involved?”

“I simply find it hard to believe she wouldn’t be. And I don’t think your explanation is satisfactory enough to clear her.”

“It doesn’t need to be. Can you provide an explanation that can confidently explain if she’s guilty?”

It’s unfair of her to taunt him like that. She knows this, and reflects that she should probably feel some measure of guilt for it, but it was necessary to cut off this line of questioning before it could devolve into something meandering and uncontrollable, and so holds her ground. Even as Byakuya glowers, fuming but silent. Toko is glancing between the two of them, eyes wide behind her glasses, pink down to her neck. Her face is still mostly hidden behind her hands, and the look in her eyes is curiously unreadable.

But that’s hardly important to Kyoko right now. She looks away. “Let’s go over the big picture of things, starting with the scene in the art room again.” She says. It was best to start with something everyone was familiar with. “Mondo was stabbed from the front, and the scene was staged to suggest that Celeste was the one who killed him, and that he had wounded Celeste in retaliation. There’s a clear contradiction here, if we consider where we found their bodies, and their states when they died.”

She pauses, but there’s no change in the atmosphere. Their stares don’t waver. Makoto’s mouth is pulled in a tight, grimacing line, a clear sign that he was going to refuse to play along with whatever she sent his way. Regardless of how important it was. She suppresses the urge to sigh again.

“Mondo and Celeste were found on opposite sides of the room, facing each other. The blood trail from Mondo’s body suggests he either crawled or was dragged there. On the other hand, there’s no blood trail from Celeste at all, but I did notice that there was an excess of it on her dress - if that blood was from the head wound, then there would be a clear trail marking how she got to that position, right?”

This time, her expectant pause is met with blinking, the clicking of gears in everyone’s head. Makoto’s eyes widen in understanding, and his mouth half drops open to say something, but-

“So…Mondo didn’t kill her?” Hiro asks, a strained sort of anxiety behind the question, different from his usual fearful energy. His eyes are wide as he looks at her, apprehension and caution tinged with - hope?

“Not for lack of trying.” And Hiro shrinks back down at that, deflated, disheartened. “If you remember, there were strangulation marks on her neck. The size and shape of the bruising can only implicate two people, and considering Mondo’s proximity, it’s highly likely that a mutual confrontation did take place.”

The fortune teller just nods, numbly, staring down at his hands. Makoto glances at him, the worry evident on his face, and the reproachful look he sends her way. “Um, but,” Makoto says, facing Hiro. “That doesn’t mean that he did kill her. The Monokuma File said that she died of the head wound, not strangulation.”

It must be a small comfort for Hiro to know that the shell-shocked boy he’d been trying to help hadn’t been responsible for a murder, judging by how Hiro offers a weak smile back. But it was ultimately a pointless thing to say; it doesn’t absolve Mondo of anything, nor does it offer anything else.

At least it serves as a good lead-in to her next point. “The head wound in question. It’s a depressed fracture in the cranium, located towards the back of the head on her left side. Combined with how the dent is angled, if Mondo had been the one to strike her, he would have had to hit her from behind.”

“Ah-!”

Aoi was the one who had just gasped, the scowl that she’d been wearing dropping for just a moment as her eyes widen with realization. It returns just as quickly when she notices Kyoko staring, however, and she turns away with a huff.

My words must have affected her more than I expected, she thinks, and shoves back the irritation that spawns at it. It wasn’t as if she had been trying to antagonize Aoi earlier. Her only intentions had been to point out the unfairness of their suspicions, but that was now proving to have been a double-edged blade of a decision. Can’t she understand this isn’t the time to be petty-

“Hina,” Makoto prompts gently, and this time Aoi only hesitates briefly, shooting one last dirty look in Kyoko's way.

“There was this…clear plastic bag thing in the trash can of the art room.” She explains. “It was all ripped up, so I wasn’t sure what it was, but there was something that was kinda blood-colored on it so I kinda noticed it, I guess. But since the wound was on the back of Celeste’s head…” And her brow scrunches in concentration as she hovers a palm a little to the side of her ponytail, roughly where the blow would have been. “It doesn’t really make sense how there was so much blood on her skirt. Like, most of it should have leaked down her back, but there was a literal puddle of it on her lap, but there were only some thin trails of it down her face and front. Which is weird, since I know head wounds bleed a lot, but that amount in that short a time would’ve needed, like…like a faucet flow, or something.”

“Thinking back now, that bag you found must have been a spare blood bag from the nurse’s office.” Sakura muses. “I didn’t recognize it at the time, but it makes sense now.”

“Right, so that means that whoever killed Celeste, must have hit her on the back of the head and then dumped blood on her! That’s why there’s no blood trail to show how she moved in the room, and why all the blood is on her front and not her back.”

It’s a respectable display of reasoning. She’s not the only one who thinks so, as Byakuya raises an eyebrow, evidently impressed. Aoi herself almost seems proud, before the realization that she was talking about the murder of her classmate settles in, as she raises a hand to her mouth in horror.

For a moment, Kyoko feels a small, quiet flare of sympathy for her, before it’s quickly superseded by a more pressing, unnervingly familiar feeling of dejá vu. And she categorizes the sensation and files away to look over later.

“Correct. All of this points to there being another party involved here.” She stops for a moment, to stare back at Makoto. He doesn’t shy away, wearing that same, determined expression as earlier. 

‘I’ll leave it all up to you,’ he said, and it’s almost funny how he took her own words and twisted them on her. In many ways she’d underestimated him, but he’s also underestimated her, if he thought she was going to simply accept his way.

“With that said, I’m sure I didn’t need to say all that just to reach that conclusion.” She continues, voice softer and utterly devoid of expression. She’d been told once that such a thing was good - it made others take her seriously, regardless of how young and childish she was - though who told her such a thing, or why, was a mystery to her. “After all. You all knew that already, didn’t you?”

The reaction is instantaneous. That ripple of surprise and unease; Hifumi blanches even more, on the verge of fainting. Hiro flinches and turns away, Sakura’s fingers flinch and clench where they’re tucked into her elbows, but Aoi tilts her head up and stares back; a little apprehensive but no less resolved. Byakuya’s head jerks, turning first to Makoto. then the others, and finally her - the only one who had been left in the dark, again.

He was clever enough to pick up on her clues that there was another person involved while they had been walking to the pool, but not on the quiet hostility that had greeted her the moment she stepped into the elevator lobby. Even with all his adaptations, it couldn’t account for an entire missing function, as he reels with the feeling of missing something obvious to everyone else.

The brief frustration on his face gives away to resignation. At this point, he must be too familiar with this feeling to waste energy on it. “Well, Makoto?” He asks, and if he sounds less demanding than usual, then that wasn’t for her to pick apart. “Is this enough reason for you to do your part?”

__

She’s talked them into a circle.

Makoto can’t help but be impressed by it, despite everything. There was no way he wouldn’t be, of course - he always knew Kyoko was amazing, in that quiet, closed-off way that she was - but it was frustrating. All that work, and she’d twisted it around on them so easily.

It’s not out of spite, He tells himself, while simultaneously trying to ignore the slight twitch of what might be a smile on her face. It’s the most logical thing to do now. I’m the one with the most information about the art room.

The thought doesn’t quite banish the irritation that lingers, but it does get him to stand a little straighter.

“...We figured that there was more to the scene because it doesn’t make sense for Mondo to have a recording of himself attempting murder. Which means either that someone was involved in the set-up, or they framed him - and also killed Celeste.” That much felt obvious, because how else would proof from the pool find its way to the art room? “What’s not clear is who did it, and why.”

And previously, he had thought it was Toko, or maybe Syo. And still thought it, honestly, because he wasn’t sure who else might have a motive, who didn’t have an alibi.

“Putting that aside for the moment, if we look back to the murder weapons; Celeste was killed with a knife meant for clay sculpting.” And at his nod, Hiro gingerly withdraws the knife from a pocket, wrapped in a tissue with the dusty blade crusted dark. “We found it in one of the tool cups on a table.”

The blade itself is thin, and with a sharp enough point for carving delicate details out of dense material, but the edge of it is still pitted with dried clay and slip. He shudders, thinking of how it’d feel to be stabbed with something like that - sharp enough to pierce, but the length of it jagged with tiny, stone-like protrusions.

“After we found that, I checked Celeste’s hands…there’s a little dried clay stuck in her palms and nails. So I… think we can say that she did kill Mondo, or- or wounded him, at least.” His voice stutters a bit, and he clears his throat quickly. “But - because of the scissors, which could have only come from To - I mean, Syo - and the body’s positions, it means that there had to be another person involved who killed Celeste. Probably with the hammer that was found next to Mondo, and - the blood pack, I guess? - and then staged it to make it look like…like they killed each other, and that, um, Syo was involved…somehow.”

And he pauses here, frowning as he mulls this thought. It’d been a little weird how much attention Kyoko had given Toko. How uncharacteristically polite she’d been with her words - and Makoto knows that she’s smart, but this kind of sly, covert manipulation...it wasn’t anything he’d ever seen from her. Of course, she’s not nearly good enough to make it go unnoticed by anyone else who might’ve been listening, and nowhere near as good as Sayaka-

He shuts his eyes so swiftly he feels the pressure flare around the eye sockets, cutting off that thought at the helm. In the darkness, he catches a flash of a teasing smile, smeared blood on white - Don’t think about that! Not now!

The pressure builds. A thin, throbbing spike piercing through his temples. They’ve gone over more or less everything from the art room, but there was something missing, something that they hadn’t fully addressed. Something, something…

“...Toko.” He thinks, as that thread of wondering finally connects at the ends to form a realization. And blinks his eyes open to see the others staring at him, various looks of bewilderment, expectation, and…mild irritation. Namely from one person.

“What are you muttering about?” Byakuya demands, lips pulled in disgust.

“Sorry, I just - I just realized something. We never got Syo’s side of things, right?” Toko jerks as he says this, like she was shocked. “If we believe what Toko said, that she’s managed to keep control all the way up until walking into the art room and seeing the bodies…and if we believe Kyoko that Syo was an accomplice here, then…when did Syo have time to collaborate with anyone?”

It feels like a lightbulb moment. Familiar now, with this being the third trial, and it’s like he can see that spark in his head, lighting up where next to go. Even as everyone else is processing it, he turns to Toko. “Are you absolutely sure that you’ve been in total control the past few days?”

“Wh-wha- wh-who do you th-think you are-?” She snaps, but her hands tremble, eyes wide and unsure. “I-I’m sure, I mean - I-I always feel t-tired wh-when I wake up after her, a-and she d-doesn’t really c-come out when I’m a-asleep…”

“But are you sure,” Makoto presses, and she hesitates even more now, bottom lip wobbling before she sinks her teeth in it.

“I…” She lowers her face, fringe obscuring the upper half of it from view. “W-well, I guess I h-have been more t-tired than usual i-in the mornings… e-even though I-I’ve been g-going to bed e-earlier…”

“Are you serious.”

Byakuya’s voice is flat, his face stony, but Makoto can tell that he’s…really, really mad. The same kind of quiet, controlled anger that Makoto only saw a few times before in his life, from his mom when he accidentally broke a window with a baseball, his teacher when the classroom frog got lost after he got put in charge of it, and Kyoko, just a little while earlier. Right now, the other boy was staring at Toko like a frog that died under a cabinet and was recently uncovered at the height of its decomposition. “So you’re not sure? And you couldn’t tell us this sooner?”

“I-I thought-! I-!” She shakes her head furiously, looking like she’s about to cry. “I r-really was working h-hard to keep her under c-control-”

“Clearly not hard enough. Are you useless?” He spits, and Toko reels back like he’d just chucked a dead frog at her. “You can’t even manage the one thing you swore you would!”

There’s a pause for a moment, everyone stunned by the pure vitriol in Byakuya’s words. Makoto can’t remember the last time he’d heard him say something so needlessly cruel, for the purpose of being cruel.

And then Hiro claps his hands, the sound making everyone jump. “Alright!” He chirps, his face twitching with an awkward smile, like he knows it’s not suited to the current atmosphere, but doesn’t know how else to move on. “So…we just have to hear out Syo’s testimony, right? Maybe she’ll be able to tell us about the culprit!”

Kyoko shakes her head. “I doubt that she would be so cooperative. Given what she did to Toko’s hair, it seems she’s not in the mood to be considerate of others.”

“S-still, it’s worth a shot, right? And she was pretty helpful in the last trial!”

“The circumstances are very different. She was already conscious last time and truly unrelated to this case. This time, we have undeniable evidence that she was involved.” She sighs, like this is all moot. “That aside, can Toko even call her out right now? Would she even be willing to talk?”

She gestures to Toko as she says this, making the girl flinch and shrink even more. “I…” Her voice is small and wavering, and she stands, hunched with her fingers digging into her arms, like a small animal. But there’s something determined behind her glasses as she lifts her face. “I-I can try…”

She falls silent, head bowing as everyone watches. No one even daring to breathe. Makoto counts his heartbeats, one, two, three…

And just like last time, Toko drops like a cut puppet, narrowly saved from slamming her head against the platform by a hand that flies up to grab the railing. But unlike last time, no one makes a sound, or any attempt to help her up, as a high-pitched, slithering giggle creeps out through the curtain of her bangs as she rises to her full height. As she raises her head, the light catches off her glasses, revealing the only thing behind them to be - insanity.

“I’m ba-ack~” Syo sings. “Didja miss me?”

__

Frankly, Byakuya thinks they could’ve done without needing to drag Syo into this - or at least, not dragging her into this now.

Because Syo was, among all her infuriating traits, also inclined to waste everyone’s time. Serving no one’s best interests but herself, regardless of the consequences - and regardless of her involvement, Byakuya feels that they would make much more progress if they went through all the evidence beforehand, instead of allowing her influence to appear now. Even now, as she stretches leisurely with a series of audible, crackling pops, sighing happily, seemingly relishing in everyone’s attention.

“Soo. You all decided you needed lil’ ol’ me, did you?” She rolls her neck, and Byakuya recoils at the sounds of her clicking vertebrae. “Al-riiight. Well? Anyone gonna speak up? I’m all ears!”

Makoto clears his throat first. “Right. Um, Syo.” For all his certainty earlier, he sounds like he was sorely regretting his decision now. “Can you…er…”

“Be more direct about it.” Byakuya snaps, feeling his patience thinning, before turning to the repulsive thing himself. “According to Toko, she was in control all throughout this morning, up until finding the bodies in the art room. Can you confirm this? And if so, what were you doing immediately after she fainted?”

Syo makes some kind of breathy, cooing sound. “Ohh, I love when you’re straightforward!” She trills, sounding nauseatingly delighted. “If only you could be like that everywhere else-”

“Shut up and answer the question.” He snarls. “If not that, then explain. How did we find your scissors there? We’ve already established they only could’ve come from your person.”

Her tongue rolls. Swipes over white teeth - or maybe just her upper lip - “You know…it sure is weird, right? How quickly you decided I had to be the one whose scissors those belonged to? Didn’t I tell you that they could’ve been hers?”

What she means by ‘her’ is obvious, even without her dramatic gesturing in Kyoko’s direction. “We’ve debunked this already. The pouch of scissors that you have right now contains fewer pairs than the one Kyoko took from you-”

“And who’s to say that I keep the same number of scissors on me at all times?”

His thoughts stutter to a halt. There was something strange about how she said that, all the twisting scribbles of her frivolity dropped from her voice, leaving behind a bare, metal surface; cold, sharp and sheer. A deathly seriousness that she had never displayed before.

“Sure, those scissors are mine. And a special make that only I know how to source. But I think you’re getting a little overexcited if you think that Moody would know any-thing about my habits. How else do you think I’ve made it this long without getting caught?” She sneers, head tilting. “Though, I guess I don’t hate an overeager man, but now’s not the time for it, don’t you think?” A pause, a quiet snicker. “Isn’t that right, Rampo-san?”

To Byakuya’s surprise, Kyoko is the one who responds, a hard edge of unease in her voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And he can hear the squeak of leather against wood.

“Aww, don’t play dumb! We all know you’re much, much, much smarter than that.” And the words finally click - and a cold sliver of dread begins to creep down his spine, a horrible realization - but no, that can’t be right, this was Kyoko they were talking about, she would never-

Would she?

“Enough,” He manages to find his tongue again, though he stumbles through the words. “Just - say what you mean.”

“Ooh, if you keep asking me to be so explicit, I’m gonna fall for you again!” She cackles, high-pitched and grating, and leans towards him, hand raised between them like she’s sharing a secret. “Act-ually…Toko’s been trying to keep me in check awhile, but she always slips when she goes to sleep, y’know? ‘Course, I don’t like moving around too much during then, since it’s just awful for my complexion if I don’t let this body rest…but I’ve been getting antsy being all cooped up and couldn’t help it.” And she shouts a laugh, so loud and sudden it makes him jump. “Imagine my surprise! When last night I walked out and slammed right into albino Sadako!”

“Albino-? What?” Hina splutters. “Wait, do you…do you mean Kyoko?”

“Who else? Don’t ya think she’s like a haunted doll? Dead quiet and always wandering when ya can’t see her?” Byakuya can’t bring himself to look away from Kyoko. Still unmoved as far as he can tell, and - surely, that must be the truth, there’s no way such a ridiculous claim would possibly affect her - “And she had some real interesting things to say to me that night. For example-”

“That’s enough,” Kyoko cuts her off sharply, a clear note of emotion in her voice now. As damning as a church bell. “We brought you here to give your testimony, not spout nonsense-”

“Oh, it’s not nonsense, though? I mean, we did run into each other last night. I can prove it, too.” The pale line of her finger turns, pinwheels, and then jabs in his direction. “Both of us witnessed the aftermath of their little dinner rendezvous. Don’t you remember how purple his neck was?”

And Byakuya narrowly avoids slapping a hand over the mark in question, twisting his fingers instead into the high, elastic collar of his jacket, knuckles brushing over the bruise. A hot, sickening curdle of embarrassment was settling in his stomach, contrasting the cold sweat breaking out on his nape. He can see Makoto mirroring his complexion, face darkening, then paling all at once.

Their discomfort doesn’t go unnoticed. Syo, of course, does nothing short of howl in laughter at the sight of it, doubling over the railing and nearly tipping right over it.

Hina looks back and forth between the two of them for a moment, mouth opening and closing a few times in silence. “...What did you and Kyoko talk about, then.” She finally says, addressing Syo - it’s as much a relief as it is another glancing blow to his pride.

Syo shrugs, shoulders and hands raising up playfully. “Oh, this n’ that. It sure wasn’t the weather though. Ain’t that right, Kyoko?” There’s the slick sound of gums scraping over teeth, as she pulls a wide, leering smile. “Or maybe I should call you ‘partner’?”

To his surprise, they don’t continue on the same path together.

Instead, they split, with Kirigiri walking towards the stairs, and Makoto in the opposite direction. Without exchanging words, or even a glance.

It gives him pause for a moment, but the choice is ultimately easy. Kirigiri, for all her mysteriousness, does not seem like the kind to be swayed by money, or most other things for that matter, and would certainly not hesitate to point out his current state. He goes after Makoto instead, trailing him some steps behind into the supply room.

The place is the same as ever - stacked with materials, shelves crammed snug with crates of all sizes, and with the air disconcertingly clean and free of dust, as if Monokuma vacuumed every day - and the overhead lights hum and buzz, glowing with an insufficient yellow light. Makoto is crouched near the far wall, over a box on a bottom shelf. Byakuya approaches, making no effort to conceal himself.

For a moment, neither of them say a word. Makoto continues to rummage, and Byakuya simply watches, arms crossed, waiting patiently as the silence stretches to minutes. 

Finally, Makoto turns over his shoulder. “Uh…hi?” He doesn’t sound startled or surprised by Byakuya’s presence, but more bewildered by it than anything. “Do you need something?”

Somehow, it doesn’t sound sarcastic or spiteful. On the other hand, he sounds so genuine that it dissipates any tension that might’ve been in the air. Byakuya sighs, a little exasperated, but less bothered than he thought he should be.

He was going to ask what Makoto’s feelings were about the motive reveal, but suddenly the atmosphere is all wrong for it, and such a conversation feels too exhausting to have now. “What are you doing?” He asks instead.

“I’m…” Makoto trails off, turning back to look into the box. “...Looking for something.”

“Yes, I gathered that much.” He rolls his eyes, and steps nearer. Even standing right behind him, it was impossible to determine the exact contents of the box just by looking, and he didn’t remember the exact locations where all the products were stored either. “I’m blind, not stupid.”

And he blinks, surprised by what he just said; that hadn’t been the snide remark he wanted to make. It feels like it should have been harder to say, and yet the words had left his mouth easily, like he’d been waiting to finally say it for himself. Makoto startles a bit, just as taken aback by the admission as he.

“I…” Makoto starts, then looks back down. “Uh, yeah. Sorry.” 

The response is so meek it’s annoying, and not the kind of answer he was wanting from someone who had been sneakily butting into his life the past few days, and he scowls. Whatever light-heartedness had been previously present was now slipping quickly away into irritation. “I don’t need your pointless scraping. What are you looking for?”

Makoto doesn’t answer. Rather, he continues to dig through the box, acting as if he hadn’t heard Byakuya’s question at all; a complete reversal from the previous sheepish, meaningless apologizing. It’s almost jarring, if it wasn’t also something entirely infuriating - he couldn’t remember the last time someone had the gall to ignore him, other than his father - and Byakuya childishly aims a kick at his shin. “Answer me.”

“Ow,” He says instead, unconvincingly. “Okay, okay, um. Do you promise not to get mad?”

“I’m going to be even angrier if you keep talking in circles.” He snaps, the last threads of his patience thinning. “I know for a fact that you’re not this wimpish, so speak up.”

Even despite the demand, Makoto is silent a little moment longer, rummaging still. Byakuya is about to kick him again, when he stands up, a tiny, blue box clutched in his hand.

“You, uh…you were shaving this morning, right?” He takes a deep breath, then holds the box out. “You’ve got a little blood here-” And he taps a finger against his cheek, somewhere below his ear; Byakuya mirrors the movement, reaching up to feel that thin line of roughness, the scab tugging at the skin. “And…I remembered my dad gave me this brand of razor, it’s really easy to use-”

Byakuya smacks the thing out of his hands before he can even finish speaking, sending it spinning across the floor, beneath some other shelf.

For a moment, the two of them stand there, stock still. Byakuya can feel his pulse thrumming in his ears, throbbing against his eardrums; he’s not sure which of them is more shocked, to be honest. Makoto’s hand is still partially outstretched, now empty.

Then: “What the hell is your problem?!” Makoto demands, instantaneous and loud and cracked with a slight note of hysteria. The sound bounces tinnily between the metal shelving units, before being swallowed into the wooden surfaces of the crates.

“What is your problem?” Byakuya shoots back, just as furious. “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t want your pity?”

“It’s not pity if I’m trying to keep you alive,” Makoto grabs his arm, shoving it upwards. His hand is nowhere big enough to wrap around it, but the grip is tight anyways, fingers digging into the hollow junction of his wrist. “You barely eat, you don’t talk to anyone-”

“I’m trying to keep myself safe-”

“That’s shit, that’s bullshit. You look,” He breaks to breathe, to laugh, and his grip tightens, grinding the bones. “You look like such shit, and it’s not even hard to tell. It’s so obvious that you’re trying to hide it but you can’t, and everyone can see that you’re falling apart and it’s so pathetic but you won’t let anyone get close enough to tell you that -” He’s shaking, or maybe that’s Byakuya himself. “Just-”

And falls silent - no, not entirely silent. Byakuya can hear his uneven breathing, the quiet squeaks in his throat. Stifling the sound of his crying, still only just audible over the hum and clanks of the building’s internals, and the ring in his own ears.

Why was he crying? The thought is fleeting, and should have just been a blip in everything else. “I am not,” He starts, and the latter half of that sentence never even becomes coherent in his own mind.

Instead, he tries to wrench his hand backwards and away from Makoto’s grip, and Makoto just follows him, pushing him, until his back meets the hard, uneven edges of a shelving unit, digging into his shoulders.

“You are, you so are,” Makoto wheezes. His hand shakes violently, but Byakuya still can’t break out of it; his wrist is being pinned to the metal frame, the cold surface a shock against his skin. “You - fuck, you can’t even take care of yourself. You try to act so cool but you’re so helpless it’s lame. You’re trying so hard to predict where the next threat is coming from but your biggest threat is yourself. You can’t even see what’s happening around you, so you don’t even try to find out - I just -”

And he stops, taking another deep, shaky breath, head dipping down until his forehead rests against Byakuya’s collarbone. His other hand is bracing the edge of a shelf, next to Byakuya’s hip, and Byakuya can feel it by sheer proximity, the warmth bleeding impossibly through the layers of Makoto’s jacket and his own thin shirt.

He-

should say something. Anger and indignation boils in his gut, how dare Makoto say such things? Who gave him the right? Didn’t he know who Byakuya was?

But-

what can he say, when it feels like he’s suddenly been struck stupid. Like he’s a child again facing his first real defeat at the hand of one of his siblings’s lackeys, kneeling with scraped knees weeping blood into his pants as he’s being taunted, the words hysteric and victorious. Like he’s trying to argue with Kirigiri, but she’s already had the last word and is simply walking away.

So he resorts to the same answer he had the first time he was forced to concede to one of his siblings, and kicks Makoto in the shin.

It’s not a very strong blow. Caged in against the shelf as he is, he doesn’t have enough space to pull back very far; but it makes Makoto grunt, surprised, and his hold loosens. Byakuya shoves him backwards, and glances to his side, where the white light spilling from the open door marks the exit.

He could leave. He doubts Makoto could catch him if he ran seriously. But his legs refuse to move; it would feel too much like conceding. He’s been losing too much these past few days to forfeit again, now.

Makoto is standing in front of him, the overhead lights above providing just enough illumination for Byakuya to make out the location of his nose, the curve of his brow, and in the split second before he can do anything Byakuya reaches out. One hand snags fingertips into Makoto’s hood. The other grabs his face, slotting his chin almost tenderly into the space between forefinger and thumb.

The effect is instantaneous, Makoto’s cheeks heating beneath his fingertips. “Hey, wh-”

Byakuya feels his face pull, an undignified baring of teeth that’s barely reminiscent of a smile, before he drags Makoto forward and knees him in the gut.

He prefers more dignified solutions to things, but violence is the most universally understood language, and he can admit to its usefulness when the need calls. Like now, as Makoto wheezes, bent over, his hands clutching unsteadily in Byakuya’s shirt to keep himself upright.

This is how it should be, he thinks, as he looks down at the crown of Makoto’s head with a twisted sense of triumph. It hardly lasts long before Makoto’s moving again with an animalistic growl, fingers twisting so tightly Byakuya can feel some threads snap in his shirt, before he’s shoved backwards with a rattling clang against the shelves.

It’s hardly enough to stun him, but he winces anyway, at the metal frame digging between his shoulder blades. Far more effective, is what comes next - Makoto sways, resting his forehead against Byakuya’s chest - before surging upwards, colliding the top of head against his nose.

The taste of copper is an afterthought to the sharp, explosive burst of pain. Byakuya screams - snarls - with it, blood tracking a hot line down his upper lip, stinging against raw skin. He sinks his hands into Makoto’s hair, and yanks roughly, trying to drag him off.

It’s unsuccessful. He doesn’t have the strength in his arms to move the weight of another teenage male, but it’s not wholly ineffective either. He hears a sharp intake of breath, and he’s managed to drag Makoto’s head backwards enough to see his face.

A face that, even in the dim yellow light of the supply room, is flushed darker than usual. And with eyes that are blown wide, the blotted shape of iris-pupils very, very dark against the whites.

It takes a moment for him to put together what that means through the haze, before Makoto’s hands are resituating themselves in Byakuya’s shirt collar, and yanking him down to - kiss him.

He freezes for a moment, mind once again going utterly blank. It’s nothing more than a hard press of lips, almost far too innocent compared to their previous state. Makoto’s lips are warm and slightly chapped, and sliding slightly against his as he smears the blood over his mouth.

It continues for a long moment, the two of them frozen in place, until Byakuya realizes that Makoto was beginning to pull away, his hold loosening; willingly seceding control over, meek again, and anger works its way up in Byakuya’s skull, spiking sharp and precise through the delirium.

He twists his hands, fingers tightening in the locks of Makoto’s hair, and forces him still, bowing his head down to bite at the seam of Makoto’s mouth with all the composure of a starving dog, smearing blood, tongue and teeth snagging in the cracked skin of his lips.

He pulls away just enough to grin, savagely, at the sight of Makoto with a vividly dark slice staining across his mouth. “That is how you kiss someone,” He whispers, with something dark and self-satisfied curling in his gut.

The only response Makoto gives is a low, almost inhuman sound, before he’s being yanked down again.

There’s nothing chaste about it this time. Rather, it’s more like a continuation of their fight, biting, clacking teeth, hands scrabbling and grasping for purchase. Makoto matches his every move with the same exact vigor, and Byakuya tastes salt and hot metal and the over-sweet sourness of energy drinks and laughs into the kiss, breathless and triumphant at Makoto’s desperation, the feeling of hands dragging down his sides, even as he claws back, trying to drag him nearer, nails raking across the thick fabric of his blazer, down his back, over his arms. In turn, Makoto licks into his mouth, tonguing hotly over his canines, the soft roof of his palate.

Disgusting. Byakuya shudders, and lets his jaw slacken just a little more.

He feels his back beginning to slide, uncomfortably, down the frame. It’s both an annoyance and a relief - the previous angle was killing his neck - but then Makoto leans forward, weight pressing against him, sandwiching him there, and digging his spine painfully against the hard juts of the shelves.

Byakuya half-thinks to scold him for that, but at the same time, Makoto is sliding his leg between his thighs, propping him up, and the reprimand turns into a groan instead, breathy and desperate and far too loud in the solitude of the supply room.

He jerks back, suddenly self-aware again, face flushed to burning. This was - he feels his head swimming, self-appalled, rivaling the temptation to sink down a little lower, lean into the hands that are now feeling clumsily up his ribcage - utterly unbecoming of him. To give into such base temptations-

Ever persistent and apparently undeterred by the absence of his mouth, Makoto leans forward and presses his teeth to the side of Byakuya’s neck instead, and the rest of Byakuya’s coherent thoughts try to fly out with those thin, pinprick-sharp flares of pain.

“Idiot,” He still manages to hiss, even as he gives in and grinds down, against a sweet pressure that makes everything feel so - indescribably - “Bastard, you pathetic little-”

Talking was getting troublesome. He presses his hands against Makoto’s cheeks, feeling a small thrill of victory when he feels his thumbs brush the corner of his lips on the first try, and kisses him again, feeling dizzy with it.

His hands shift, seeking out better purchase in Makoto’s hood, knuckles pressing against the warm, jumping muscles in his neck, the other sinking into his hair again. This time more to keep himself upright as Makoto was apparently trying to bite his tongue off - and that thought really shouldn’t be doing anything for Byakuya, and yet -

Tap, tap. Tap.

“Makoto,” He gasps, whines, managing to pull himself away once more. This time grabbing onto Makoto’s face and pushing him backwards like an undisciplined, overeager dog - the other boy struggles for a moment, pushing back against his hands - “Wait, just - calm down, you - do you hear that?”

It takes a moment for Makoto to respond. “Wh-huh?” He manages, somewhat incoherently, which Byakuya…supposes, is reasonable. They’re still pressed against each other, and Byakuya can still feel something pressing against his thigh, which he tries very hard to ignore, in favor of concentrating hard.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It doesn’t sound like it was coming from the hallways. But it couldn’t be the heating or piping in the walls either; it was too soft, and…too dynamic, too purposeful, for that. He cranes his head over his shoulder, but the only thing behind him was the shelf, some boxes, and the flat, gray expanse of the wall.

Tap. Tap, tap, taptaptap-

The sound rises to a sudden crescendo, speeding behind him. Almost reflexively, he shoves away from the shelf, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Makoto lands on his back with a grunt, and Byakuya lands nearly on top of him, before scrabbling backwards until his back meets the shelf, self-awareness shattering his earlier insanity.

Makoto is staring at him, face still flushed and dazed. “Hey, what was-?”

“Awahwahwah!? Kyahh!!”

They jerk their heads in unison, turning to find a short, round, oblong shape standing in the doorway. Monokuma stands there with face covered by paws, squealing. “C-c-could this be?! The fabled, mythical, super-ultra-sexy-secret-rendezvous I heard about from the headmaster’s handbook?! Wah! My eyes!! My untainted, honest, adorable teddy-button eyes!!!”

“Shut up!” Byakuya snaps, voice far too high-pitched to not be damning, despite his best attempts to calm down. He surreptitiously turns away from the door, and can see Makoto doing something similar out of the corner of his eye, tucking his knees up close to his chest. Monokuma shakes, either from laughter or phony horror.

“Oh, there’s no need to worry, Young Master Byakuya. I’m a very progressive bear, after all!” It nods emphatically, and Byakuya grits his teeth at the derisive use of the title. “After all, I am your headmaster, and I want this place to be all sweet and accepting of all my students! You can talk to your classmates about it at this seminar I’m planning-”

“Get out of here.” Makoto rasps, voice still rough and a little unsteady. He sounds downright furious, more so than Byakuya remembers ever hearing him. “It wasn’t- It wasn’t like that.”

“Oh-ho? T’wasn’t it?” Monokuma tilts its head, and toddles over with squeaky footsteps. “Well then, what did happen? Because it certainly looked to me like I just blue-beared you two!” And it cackles hysterically at its own joke, the sound grating and echoing between the shelves.

“He-” Makoto’s sneakers scrape against the floor as he shifts, hesitating. “He was- trying to…trying to kill me.”

And even through the rising haze of fury, panic, and nauseating shame, Byakuya’s thoughts grind to a sudden halt.

“What?” He says aloud, at the same time as Monokuma squeals with apparent delight, drowning him out entirely.

“Oh, oh! Is that so?” And it rounds on him, all of a sudden far too close for comfort, his vision divided white and black. “Tell me, is this true? What was the weapon? What was the plan? Oh, it’s a shame I interrupted, so now I gotta make up for the lost opportunity! Spill the deets!”

So none of it had meant anything. Their pathetic, awkward fumbling in the dark, his brief delusion of control, had only amounted to this. Back to being humiliated and shamed by a grinning, faceless mastermind, and with no more authority over himself as he did before, as Makoto was trying to save him. Again.

He kicks Monokuma away, sending it spinning with a yelp into one of the shelves, and bolts from the room. Makoto is shouting after him, and soon there are footsteps dogging at his heels, but he makes it all the way back to his bedroom before Makoto catches up to him as he’s trying to unlock the door.

He narrowly makes it inside, tries to swing the door shut but it bounces off of Makoto’s shoe, jammed in just in time - and he’d wince in sympathy, or mull in the dejá vu of it, if he wasn’t currently trying to tamp down his own swell of emotions, nearing to breaking through his thinly held-together composure.

“Why did you say that,” He spits through clenched teeth. Too exhausted to try and force him out, too angry to just ignore him. “Of all the stupid, useless lies to come up with, you had to choose one that made me look even more pathetic?!”

“What were you going to say, then,” Makoto shoots back, just as irritated. “Was there anything more plausible that would’ve been better for you than ‘we were making out in the closet’?!”

He doesn’t bother to reply. Because no, that was the most believable thing Makoto could have said, which was why he was so furious now. There was the logical setting, an established motive - the set-up for a cheap, impassioned crime, with no thought or grace behind it. 

If he had said it himself, he might have barely been able to salvage his own pride. But having to be defended by his own so-called ‘victim’, having to be saved by Makoto again-

He sits down heavily on the bed, rubbing his temples. “Just leave, Makoto.” He sighs, eyes screwed shut. He’s too tired for this, and would rather try and sleep and forget it all. Or break down, which was beginning to feel like a very real possibility, which he’d rather do in the privacy of his own room anyways.

But instead of leaving, Makoto drops down to the floor with a thump, directly in front of him. “I’m not leaving until you go eat something.” He says, stubbornly, apparently recalling his entire original purpose of trying to bully him into codependency.

I was hoping he would’ve forgotten that. Byakuya feels a pulse throb beneath his fingertips, exasperation pushing through the rising fog of panic. “Must we do this now?”

“If I don’t, you’re going to ignore and avoid me and everyone else again, right?” He could almost hear the teasing smile tugging at the corner of Makoto’s mouth. “But, um. I mean. If you don’t want to talk, we could…you know…”

It takes a moment to identify exactly what he’s suggesting, but the disbelieving laugh that escapes Byakuya’s mouth is entirely unintentional, the panic miraculously dissipating in the same breath. “You can’t be serious.”

“I-I mean-! I’m totally okay if you don’t want to, I just thought…” Makoto trails off with a cough. “I…it was kind of a joke. Um- but you were enjoying it too, right?” There’s a thin note of hesitance in his voice.

Byakuya sighs. “...Yes. Unfortunately so.” Enough that if he thinks too much on it, he’ll become aware of the buzzing still lingering in his lips and the feeling of warmth beneath his hands, the low throb in his nose where the bleeding had only just stopped, and there was no good way that particular thought process was going to end. He’d almost prefer the impending anxiety attack to this.

“O-oh, okay. Cool. That’s cool.” Makoto rocks a little bit. “So…”

“I’m not having sex with you right now.” He deadpans, and Makoto has the gall to blush sheepishly, as if he weren’t the one making the suggestion in the first place.

“Right. Yeah, of course.” He scratches his head with a quiet laugh. “We…kinda took it a little fast, huh?”

That was an understatement. And he raises a hand over his face, trying to hide the heat rising beneath his fingers…much of what had happened was mostly due to his own actions. “Well, it’s not like we are in a situation where we could have a normal progression of things.”

“I don’t know, we have a pretty good kitchen. I would’ve liked to make you dinner first, or something.”

“How romantic. Forgive me if the idea of a school cafeteria meal doesn’t sweep me off my feet.”

“You won’t know if you don’t try it. I can make a pretty good omelet on a good day…if you’re okay with that.” The lilting invitation is clear, and Byakuya snorts.

“I should’ve murdered you in front of Monokuma.” He deadpans back.

Now it was Makoto’s turn to chuckle, a soft, surprised ‘ha!’ that makes Byakuya smile wholly inadvertently.

“Yeah, probably,” He agrees. “Did you want to?”

The smile slides off his face instantly. It sounds like Makoto is joking, but - it’s hard to tell. So hard to tell without being able to see if he’s smiling, if the easy tone of his voice matches his face.

“Do you want to?” He asks again, voice softer, serious.

Probably not a joke, then. He laces his fingers tightly, tight enough for his joints to ache, pressing the knuckles to his chin. “It hadn’t…crossed my mind.” Not seriously, at least. And not since the last trial.

But he could. There was no deal to uphold, not anymore. And Makoto - 

“Why are you asking?” He looks up for the first time, at Makoto, sitting cross-legged on his carpet. Staring back at him. “Surely you don’t want to die?”

Makoto doesn’t reply, his face still curiously, infuriatingly blank.

Everything that had been previously cleared comes rushing back, fury and disbelief and - anxiety, of all things, a painful, welling lump of it rising up his gullet - and before he knows it, he’s on the ground, kneeling across from Makoto with his hands around his neck.

The skin is warm. Shockingly soft, slightly tacky with sweat. The pressure isn’t enough to cut off airflow - his hands are only just resting against his throat - but Byakuya flexes his thumbs lightly, feeling the shape of his Adam’s apple beneath his fingers, his pulse beneath his palms.

And the whole time, Makoto makes no move to push him off. He had twitched, maybe, surprised at first, but that was all, now frozen stock-still - no, he was relaxing into the touch, muscles going purposefully slack as his shoulders slump.

“...What are you doing.” He whispers. Tenses his fingers, feels the breath hitch. “I could kill you right now. Why aren’t you stopping me?” Takes a deep, shuddering breath as he feels his voice begin to break. “Don’t tell me you actually want to die here!”

Makoto’s mouth is a dark cavern as he opens it to respond. “I don’t. Of course I don’t.” His voice wheezes slightly. “But if it’s you… I’d rather it be you than anyone else.”

Byakuya feels his hands shake. This was too much, all of it too much - he hadn’t even concluded how he felt about Makoto yet, not coherently - and apparently, in the time he’d spent in self-isolation, something had become twisted. The most mundane person here had become wholly insane. For his sake.

I must be insane too, he thinks, for the tiny, irrational thrill of joy that runs through him at that realization.

He jerks when he feels hands resting over his, fingers tracing delicately over the fine lines of his knuckles, the hollow of his wrist. Keeping his grip steady.

“I don’t think you will, though,” Makoto continues. “You don’t really want to kill anyone. You would’ve done it already if you did.”

“Don’t act like you know me.” He grits, grip spasming, torn between removing himself from Makoto and throttling him to shut him up. “You know perfectly well there’s a difference between intent and capabilities.”

Makoto takes a shaky, raspy breath. A slash of white pulls across his face. “Then are you gonna prove me wrong?”

Byakuya hesitates for too long. In that time, the hands that rest over his pull and then press, and he flinches as his palms fully meet Makoto’s neck, almost icily cool against the clamminess of his own skin. He yanks them backwards like he’d been burned, too shocked to even scold him for - for any of it. Too flustered to wonder if he even could.

His hands shake, still, even when he clenches them into fists with his nails biting into his palms, pressing into his knees.

Makoto coughs once, massaging his neck, before he stands up slowly.

“Let’s go,” He says, still smiling as he offers up a hand. “I’ll make you an omelet.”