#togami

you don't go near the library for three days.

you don't walk past it. you don't look at it. you pretend it doesn't exist — as if the walls inside aren't soaked with the memory of your body crushed between wood and heat and something shameful.

you barely speak to anyone.

and most importantly, you avoid him.

it takes effort. he's always around — whether looming in the hallway, flipping pages at the dining table, or stalking into the morning meetings like the air isn't heavy with everything unspoken between you. he doesn't look at you. not directly. not for long.

but you feel it.

like a pulse under the surface. like a bruise you keep pressing on, just to check it still hurts.

it does.

today, you sit stiffly in the corner of the classroom as everyone gathers for a group discussion. tensions have been rising since the last motive, and kyoko called this meeting to "maintain unity," which is laughable in a place where your life can be stolen overnight.

you don't speak. you listen. you nod when appropriate.

and you don't look at him.

until he speaks.

"frankly," byakuya says, tone ice-smooth, "some of us are dragging this entire group down."

you stiffen.

across the room, aoi frowns. "that's kind of harsh, byakuya."

"harsh doesn't make it untrue," he replies easily. "we have dead weight. people who are too emotionally volatile to be useful."

you feel the words before you understand them.

dead weight.

emotionally volatile.

he's not looking at you, but he doesn't have to. the tone — the weight in his voice — makes it clear.

he means you.

makoto glances between the two of you, brows furrowed. "you're not talking about—?"

"i'm not naming names," byakuya cuts in, too smooth, "because i don't have to."

your stomach turns.

something ugly rises in your throat — not anger, not quite. something hotter. something heavier. the humiliation of knowing you gave him something real and now he's using it to dig you into the floor. publicly. effortlessly.

you clench your fists in your lap. you want to say something. you want to scream at him. you want to throw a chair at him.

but you don't.

you swallow it down.

the rest of the group shifts awkwardly. toko watches you with narrowed eyes. hiro rubs the back of his neck like he's stuck between speaking up and pretending he didn't hear it. no one moves.

not even him.

he doesn't so much as blink in your direction.

but he knows exactly what he did.

you excuse yourself early. kyoko doesn't stop you. no one does.

as you leave the room, you feel his gaze follow you.

you don't look back.

you won't give him that.

not again.

you don't cry until you're back in your room.

not at first.

you slam the door. you pace. you tug at your sleeves like you're peeling his words off your skin. you try to convince yourself it didn't matter.

but it did.

he knew what he was doing — had to. the tone, the phrasing, the timing. it wasn't an observation. it wasn't even strategy. it was punishment.

for the kiss.

for the silence that followed it.

for the way you've been avoiding him like he's something contagious.

the tears sting before you can stop them. you wipe them away fast, furious. you don't even know what you're more upset about — the fact that he said it, or the fact that it hurt.

you're not supposed to care what he thinks.

he's cruel. he's cold. he doesn't feel things the way normal people do.

and yet...

your hand touches your mouth without thinking.

that kiss.

the heat of it, the hunger in it — it didn't feel calculated. it felt like something broke loose inside him. something wild and real and raw.

you press your back against the door.

you need air.

you need distance.

but you don't make it far.

because he's already waiting in the hallway.

he doesn't look surprised to see you.

he always looks like he's been waiting for you to catch up.

"running off again?" he says, not moving from where he leans against the wall.

you freeze. "what do you want?"

"answers."

you laugh — bitter, low. "you already gave yours in the meeting."

he straightens, slow and sharp, like a blade slipping from its sheath. "don't be dramatic."

"calling me dead weight in front of everyone isn't dramatic?"

"if the shoe fits—"

you walk past him.

or try to.

he catches your arm.

not hard. just enough to stop you.

you flinch anyway.

he notices.

something dark flickers in his expression. "i wasn't talking about you," he says, quiet.

you glare at him. "yes, you were."

"it wasn't—" His jaw tightens. "only you."

that shouldn't sting more.

but it does.

you yank your arm free and take a step back, breathing hard. "why do you even care?"

"i don't."

"then why are you here?"

"because you won't stop looking at me like that."

"like what?"

"like you expect something i'm not going to give you."

there it is again — that voice. detached. controlled. cold.

and still your heart races.

"i don't want anything from you," you whisper.

"liar."

"i hate you."

he moves toward you, deliberate. not fast. not threatening. just... close.

too close.

"you kissed me back."

"i wasn't thinking."

he hums — soft, like amusement, but there's no humor in his eyes. "you were."

the air between you shifts. tightens.

you want to slap him.

you want to kiss him again.

you do neither.

"i'm not a game," you say, voice thin. "you don't get to humiliate me just because i didn't want to fall into bed with you after one kiss."

his gaze doesn't waver. "i didn't think you would."

"then what was that?"

a pause. too long.

"i don't know," he admits.

the honesty unsettles you more than the cruelty did.

you look at him — really look at him — and for a second, you see it: a crack in the armor. a flicker of something like regret.

then it's gone.

he turns his face away. "you're not the only one who doesn't know what to do with this."

and he walks past you.

for once, he's the one who leaves first.

you're left standing in the hallway, trembling with things you can't name.

you don't mean to run into makoto.

you're walking fast. anywhere, nowhere. just away. away from the hallway, away from him, away from the sharpness in his voice and the way it still somehow lingers in your skin.

you turn a corner too fast and crash into someone warm, solid.

"oh—!" makoto stumbles a step back. "sorry! i didn't see— are you okay?"

you blink at him.

and just like that, the tears start again.

makoto's face softens. "hey, wait—hey, it's okay. come on, let's sit."

you don't argue. you follow him into the small rec room. it's quiet here. dim. shelves of unused board games and an abandoned deck of cards on the table. it doesn't smell like him.

that's a relief.

makoto waits until you sit down before he does too. not across from you — beside you. enough space to not make you feel cornered.

you press your hands between your knees and try to breathe. you don't say anything.

not yet.

he waits.

and that's the thing about makoto. he doesn't push. he just... makes it feel safe to fall apart.

"i kissed him," you say.

it just slips out.

makoto blinks. "uh... what?"

you exhale, sharp. "byakuya. i kissed him. no— he kissed me. i don't know. it was mutual. it was a mistake."

he says nothing.

you keep going. the silence makes you nervous.

"i avoided him. i didn't say anything, i didn't want anything, but now he's acting like i'm the villain in some twisted little power play. he humiliated me in front of everyone. and then he denied it, and then he—" your voice cracks. "i don't know what he's trying to prove."

makoto frowns slightly, hands folded in his lap. "that sounds... rough."

"rough," you echo. "yeah. that's one word for it."

he doesn't ask why it happened. he doesn't pry. and somehow, that makes you talk more.

"i feel—" you break off, struggling to find words. "he makes me feel like i'm losing my mind. like i'm the one twisting things around, even when he's the one who—who starts it. i want to hate him, makoto. i should hate him. but..."

makoto watches you gently.

"but it wasn't fake," you whisper. "that kiss. it felt... real. and i don't know what to do with that."

he's quiet for a long moment.

and then, softly: "you don't have to know what it meant yet. especially not with someone like him."

you look up, startled.

makoto offers a small smile. "byakuya doesn't let anyone close. not really. but... you got under his skin, didn't you?"

you open your mouth to argue, but stop.

you did.

that's the problem.

makoto continues, a little more serious now. "i think he's scared of you."

you laugh once, bitter. "that's ridiculous."

"no," he says calmly, "it's not. you make him feel something. that's not easy for people like him."

you're quiet again.

something uncomfortable and warm coils in your chest. not comfort — not quite. just... a little less alone.

"you didn't deserve what he said," makoto adds. "and if he wants to be in your life at all, he has to face that."

you nod, slowly.

and for the first time all day, you feel like you can breathe again.

you don't mean to start spending so much time with makoto. it just happens.

it starts with meals. you find him at the cafeteria table more often than not — already smiling, already waving you over. you sit across from him. you talk. he listens. and when you don't want to talk, he fills the silence without demanding anything in return.

then come the shared walks. the library. the rec room. a chess game neither of you really know how to play, but pretend you do. you laugh more than you mean to. you're not sure you've smiled this much since arriving here.

and you don't have to say it to know — he's keeping you distracted.

from him.

from the memories you can't sort out. from the kiss you don't talk about.

it's nice. it's simple. it feels like peace.

but peace never lasts long here.

you notice it a few days later.

the way byakuya watches.

it's subtle at first. a glance when you pass in the hallway. an extra beat when you speak in the group discussions. you catch it out of the corner of your eye: his head tilting just slightly, his expression unreadable but intent.

and then, it sharpens.

the stare lingers longer when makoto walks beside you.

his brows draw in the tiniest bit when makoto makes you laugh.

he stops looking away when you catch him watching.

it's not just  jealousy. 

it's something colder.

calculating.

possessive.

like he's trying to dissect what you're doing — why you're doing it — and what it means for him.

you don't acknowledge it.

you won't give him the satisfaction.

but it gets harder to ignore.

especially when he starts showing up more.

he's not subtle about it.

you're reading with makoto in the library when he walks in, takes the table directly behind you, and opens a book he clearly doesn't care about. he doesn't turn the page for twenty minutes.

another day, you're helping makoto sort supplies in the storage room when the door opens sharply — and byakuya just looks. says nothing. watches. leaves.

like a ghost that refuses to fade.

it starts to wear on you.

makoto notices. of course he does.

you're sitting with him on the stairs near the dorms — talking about something dumb, something light — when you glance over and catch byakuya standing at the far end of the hall.

just standing.

watching.

you stiffen.

makoto follows your gaze. "again?" he asks gently.

you don't answer. you just pull your knees to your chest.

"he's not subtle," makoto says.

"he doesn't need to be," you mutter.

there's a beat of quiet before makoto says, carefully, "is this... bothering you? that he's watching you?"

yes.

no.

you don't know.

"it's not like i want him to care," you say. "but i hate that he does."

makoto nods. "that makes sense."

another beat.

"he's probably used to people chasing after him," he adds. "not the other way around."

you snort. "that sounds like a him problem."

"maybe," makoto says. "but maybe he's never had to learn how to... reach back. so now he's just watching you go."

that thought sits heavy in your chest.

you look down at your hands.

"does it bother you?" you ask, suddenly.

makoto blinks. "what?"

"that he... kissed me. that we—that i'm spending time with you now, instead."

makoto looks surprised for a moment. then softens.

"no," he says. "i'm your friend. i want you to feel safe. that's all."

you swallow.

you wish it were that simple.

because even now, even with makoto beside you, you can still feel those eyes. that stare. that weight.

you're not ready to look back at him.

not yet.

maybe not ever.

but part of you wonders how long he'll wait.

and what he'll do if you never stop walking. 

────୨ৎ────

you laugh.

too loudly. too easily. too often lately.

byakuya hears it again before he even sees you.

it cuts across the hall — small and thoughtless and warm in a way it never is when you're speaking to him.

because you're speaking to naegi.

again.

he turns the corner and sees it: you, leaning in toward the smaller boy like gravity's decided makoto naegi deserves your full attention. you're both sitting by the window, some half-played card game between you, your head tilted, your lips curled around a grin that doesn't belong here. not in this killing game. not with that boy.

and certainly not without him.

he stops walking. watches.

you don't notice. or maybe you do — and ignore him.

the cards don't matter. the game doesn't matter.

only the way you let naegi see you.

open. unguarded.

the same way you used to look at him.

that's what unsettles him most.

you stopped pretending around him long ago. started arguing. started pushing. but even in the heat of it — even when words snapped and eyes narrowed — there was something real. something raw and personal. he understood that. he trusted it. he thought you did too.

but now?

now you've shut him out completely.

ever since the kiss.

ever since you ran.

ever since he ran his mouth. 

he turns sharply, walking away before you can catch him staring.

again.

he's been doing that too much lately.

he shouldn't care.

you were never anything more than a problem to solve. an unpredictable element in a contained system. he played the game. you reacted. you snapped. you wanted him — he knows you did — and he let you think he didn't.

control. that's what mattered.

but now, the control is gone.

you took it with you when you ran from the library.

you've given your attention to someone else. someone easier. Ssomeone who stutters when he's flustered and smiles like a damn puppy and wouldn't know how to hurt someone even if he had to.

byakuya grits his teeth and closes the door to his room with a little more force than necessary.

he paces.

the rational part of him tries to win.

it's good that you're distracted. a focused player is a dangerous one. if you're too busy spending your time on naegi, you'll slip. your judgment will dull. you'll be easier to read.

you're not a threat.

you're not.

but it doesn't sit right.

it hasn't, ever since he saw the way naegi touched your shoulder the other day. a small gesture. friendly. meaningless.

but you didn't pull away.

you smiled.

the way you smiled at him once.

byakuya stares at the wall.

it doesn't make sense. you should've stayed angry. you should've screamed at him. slapped him, even. but you didn't. you ran.

and now you're gone.

and he's still thinking about it.

that kiss.

the tremble in your fingers before they curled in his shirt. the heat of your breath. the part of him that wanted more. the part that still does.

he slams his hand against the desk, the echo ringing in the silence.

he doesn't know what it means.

he doesn't like not knowing.

you've taken up too much space in his mind. again.

this has to stop.

he has to stop it.

he's not some jealous fool, circling the girl he wants like some desperate dog. that's beneath him. he doesn't chase.

and yet...

when he sees you again later that evening — sitting with naegi in the library, your heads bowed together over some stupid book — he walks in.

just to look.

just to remind you he's still there.

you don't meet his eyes.

but naegi does.

and for the first time, byakuya sees it — the way naegi shifts slightly closer to you. protective.

he hates that more than anything.

because it means he's noticed, too.