Work Text:
Kyoko Kirigiri feels guilty.
She misses people she doesn't remember, places she hasn't been to and memories she doesn't have. Sometimes she feels as if she is drowning in expectations. She sets high expectations for herself because she has a nagging feeling that it’s something she has always done. These expectations are adopted by her classmates, and soon there isn't a day that goes by without at least one expectant gaze leveled at her. She wants to be sick of it, yet she feels as if she brought it upon herself.
Whenever Kyoko breaks away from the group and goes off on her own, they stare at her with suspicion. They think she doesn't notice, but she does. She always notices. It makes dread coil in her stomach, and each time she comes back her guilt only increases. Her classmates' patience seems to be waning with each disappearance, but she can't help it. There's a gaping hole in Kyoko’s heart and mind and it hurts. She wonders how she can miss something she doesn't remember.
Despite her initial apprehension, she makes steady progress on discovering her own identity. Each new nook or cranny Kyoko finds in the school leads her closer to the answers of the questions that refuse to go away. Her mind is plagued by mysteries and, for the first time, she’s not certain if she wants to solve them. A small part of her wonders if she will be better off pretending. She quickly shakes these thoughts off. If there’s anything Kyoko Kirgiri needs above all else, it’s knowledge. She has a thirst for knowledge that will never be quenched. Pretending will never get rid of her insatiable desire for answers.
One particular morning, she’s sitting at one of the desks in the library when Makoto walks up to her and places a hand on her shoulder. She resists the urge to flinch at the contact and instead puts down the text she’s reading, looking over at her friend. For a moment, the two stare at each other in silence. Makoto’s eyes flit about her face and his eyebrows furrow.
"Kyoko, are you alright?" he asks, his eyes gleaming with an emotion Kyoko doesn't want to recognize. She doesn't deserve pity, least of all from him. Her throat burns and the words she wants to say are caught on her tongue. She just barely recognizes her response, and it's far too quiet and shaky to be taken seriously. Makoto notices, because he is always remarkably observant when it comes to other people. "Is this about your father?"
Kyoko doesn’t respond, which is enough of an answer. She knows she should dispute the claim, but who is she kidding? She’s been searching for her father for longer than she can remember. She deserves to be upset about it, about him. Sometimes, in the back of her mind, Kyoko wonders if she deserved to be left behind all those years ago. Perhaps she didn’t try hard enough. Did she not say “I love you” enough? Did she forget to hold his hand crossing the street? Millions of thoughts like these plague her mind, to the point where Kyoko begins to accept the possibility that she just isn’t good enough.
"Kyoko, you did nothing wrong," Makoto shakes his head, placing a warm hand on her knee. Kyoko bites her lip and tries not to think of her father, the headmaster of Hope's Peak Academy. Every time her classmates speak of the mastermind, tearing them to bits with their accusations, she wants to throw up. Her father could be the one that organized this. After all, he was the one who put them here. It’s only a natural assumption, one that even the dullest of her classmates can put together. Kyoko has to bite the inside of her cheek every time the fictitious “mastermind,” is mentioned.
"I miss him," Kyoko chokes out. Her hands are shaking and the world is collapsing in on her, the walls of the library melting and fusing to crush her. All she can do is sit and cry, pretending that her life and identity aren’t unraveling at the seams. She’s just about to drown in the sizable influx of emotions when she feels a hand on her shoulder. Makoto grips her shoulder tightly, but not painfully. It’s a reassuring pressure, one that helps Kyoko keep herself anchored to the horrible reality she finds herself in.
"Of course you do," Makoto nods reassuringly, the boy’s green eyes centering on her face. Kyoko's throat is burning, and she can only nod in response. "He's your father. It's only natural."
Kyoko had tried to rationalize her feelings with the exact same reasoning before, yet it hadn’t worked. Something about the confidence in Makoto’s frame, the assurance in his voice, convinces her that he is telling the truth. She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, starting to feel the negative feelings seeping out of her.
“You are enough,” Makoto continues, his eyes wide with an emotion Kyoko doesn’t want to recognize. “You are more than enough, Kyoko. You’re crazy smart and super talented. I’m sure he was proud to be your father.” Kyoko feels her eyes burning and, finally giving in, she lets the tears stream down her cheeks. The teardrops feel less like defeat and more like a victory. As she cries, she lets go of all her anger, thirst for vengeance and vindictive grief. Kyoko feels the resistance completely seep out of her. She looks up into the kind grey-green eyes of her first friend and she accepts everything. She accepts her father’s absence. She accepts who she is and, most of all, she accepts her grief. Kyoko Kirigiri looks at Makoto Naegi and, for the first time in years, she smiles.
Byakuya Togami wants more.
Byakuya has a lot but he wants even more. He possesses nearly everything but it isn’t enough. He is the Ultimate Affluent Progeny. He's intelligent, attractive, charismatic when he wants to be. Byakuya's everything he needs to be but he still wants more. He wants more, needs more. The sky isn’t the limit for him—the stars are.
When Sakura dies, Byakuya isn’t sad. He doesn’t get sad and, even if he did, it wouldn’t be for her. He didn’t know the girl well, admittedly. Besides, she was revealed to be working with the mastermind. Byakuya doesn’t quite understand how everyone is forgetting that. As he goes through the investigation, he can’t help but think that something doesn’t quite make sense. Even so, he pushes his premonition to the back of his mind and perseveres.
It isn’t until he’s standing in the trial grounds, behind the ever familiar wooden banister, that he remembers the doubt in the back of his mind. Makoto and Kyoko are spearheading the conversation, but they’re leading it in a direction that he’s entirely unsure of. Byakuya loathes both of them—Makoto especially. How dare they argue with him? How dare they act as if they are worthy of being in his presence?
When Makoto reveals the contradiction behind the bottle of protein and the footprints in the lab, Byakuya wants to scream. There’s a sudden tightness in his chest, making it immensely hard to breathe. Makoto prattles on, entirely unaware of the breakdown Byakuya is having. Any confidence the heir feels he possessed has shriveled up and disintegrated to dust. If he can’t trust himself and his own judgment, then what can he trust? Byakuya lives with the knowledge that he has all the answers. But, does he really? Does Byakuya Togami truly know everything?
The trial comes to a messy close. There are no casualties, save for Sakura, yet Byakuya can’t help but feel as if he was the one executed. His ideals, his belief in himself- it’s the only thing he has. The only person he can rely on in this world is himself, and yet…
Byakuya finds himself sitting in the library, some time after the trial concluded. He has a book in his hands, yet he’s entirely unable to read it. The trial dominates his thoughts. His mistakes and his ignorance dominate his thoughts. Byakuya Togami is not ignorant. Yet, in the trial but a few hours prior, he was. Byakuya was entirely unaware of the lengths Hina would go to protect her friend and, somehow, that led to his near demise.
An immeasurable amount of time later, Makoto walks in the room. The brown-haired boy is entirely silent. Byakuya glares at the back of his head, willing him to die before his eyes. If Makoto notices his glaring, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he flips through the pages of a book. For a moment, he pauses, before flipping the book upside down and laughing. Byakuya grips the desk viciously, feeling rage and anger reach an ugly boiling point within him. Is this the boy who outsmarted him?
"How'd you solve that case?" Byakuya finds himself asking, his voice cracking towards the end of his sentence. Makoto looks up from the book that he's pretending to read, a contemplative expression growing on his face. Bykauya grits his teeth and digs his nails into his palms, trying his best not to grab the lamp at his desk and bash it into the boy’s skull.
“Hm?” Makoto remarks intelligently. Byakuya has to suppress the urge to get up and walk out of the room. He crosses one leg over the other, clasping his hands on his knee and pretending that he isn’t desperate for an answer.
"I don't understand," Byakuya continues, and he just knows there's a devastated expression on his face. He remembers that showing emotion is dangerous, but he can't help it. Makoto's gaze is far too knowing for him to even attempt to hastily throw on a mask of indifference. "How did you know the answer when I didn't?"
"Humans are complex," Makoto whispers vaguely, picking at the threads that hang off of his hoodie. Byakuya is thankful the boy isn't looking at him, because he knows that the pity that is certain to be in his green eyes would be enough to send him over the top. "We're motivated by emotions more often than not."
“I know that,” Byakuya snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. He grits his teeth and wills himself to be quiet. He needs answers. Makoto doesn’t seem bothered by his snippy remark, instead tilting his head up to look at him.
"Emotions just don't apply to the logic you're so fond of," Makoto replies softly, single handedly ripping the carpet from under Byakuya’s feet, Byakuya’s world. Makoto has a hand on his shoulder as Byakuya falls apart. His breaths are stolen from his lungs, and he can feel them coming out sharper and more panicked. He briefly recognizes Makoto readjusting and clasping his hand, bringing it to his own chest. Byakuya squints at Makoto, confused as to why the boy has guided him to rest his hand on his chest.
"Breathe in time with me," Makoto says. Byakuya wants to roll his eyes, but the feeling of his throat closing is too prominent to be ignored. He shakily matches his breaths with Makoto's, until he's no longer gasping for air. His throat still feels tight, but shadows no longer peek out of the corners of his vision. The ground under his feet stops swaying and he clenches his fists in his lap. For a long moment, the pair is entirely silent. Byakuya doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to feel either.
"Do you want to be friends?" Makoto’s voice breaks the silence, a placating smile on his face. Byakuya feels his eyes rolling before he can help it. The sudden statement is so characteristic of the brown-haired boy. Even though Makoto must only have good intentions, Byakuya can’t stop the voice in the back of his head from giving its input. You don’t need friends. You never needed friends.
"No," Byakuya snaps. Makoto laughs instead of calling him out on the obvious lie.
Toko Fukawa is split down the middle. She's a timid schoolgirl by day and a serial killer by night.
Some days are better than others. There are mornings when she wakes and Genocide Jill is nothing but a lingering presence in the back of her head. She spends these days with her friends, smiling and laughing. Those days are when she's most happy, and least reminded of the fact that she isn't alone in her mind. Other days, she wakes up with a migraine and no recollection of the night prior. There are two distinct voices in her head—one is on the verge of crying and one laughs maniacally. She doesn’t know which is hers. On these confusing days, she mutters out excuses to her classmates about not feeling well and barricades herself in her room, afraid of the seemingly infinite possibilities for destruction and the inevitable loss of control.
Today is one of the latter days—the days when Toko makes excuses and hides in her room, afraid of her reflection in the mirror. Thankfully, no one bothers to notice her absence. No one comes to her door, and Toko isn’t quite sure if she should feel grateful or saddened at the fact. She settles for a mixture of both.
Just as Toko is about to further lament the fact that her classmates don’t care about her enough to check on her, her doorbell rings. She gets to her feet, swallowing hard and slowly walking to the door. Upon opening the door, she’s surprised to find Makoto waiting just outside her doorway.
"Can I come in?" the boy asks, a soft smile on his face. His arms are hidden behind his back and his posture is rather awkward. Ultimately, Toko’s curiosity wins out against her fear. Despite the trepidation settling heavily in her chest, she opens the door wider to let him in. Makoto walks in with a gracious smile, and Toko realizes that he's holding something in his hands. He sets it down on her desk. Upon closer inspection, it appears to be a container of food.
"I figured you would be hungry,” Makoto explains, evidently noticing her questioning gaze. He takes the lid off and the smell hits her nostrils immediately. The tension seeps out of her shoulders, and she can’t help but breathe out in sheer awe.
“How did you k-know I like curry?” Toko asks. Makoto just smiles and winks at her, lifting the container and handing it to her. She takes it and sits on her bed, the empty feeling in her stomach beginning to disappear. She offers some to Makoto, but he declines, muttering out an excuse about already eating.
"I noticed you tend to break off from the group sometimes," Makoto whispers, in a voice filled with far more compassion than she deserves. Toko bites the inside of her cheek as he continues to speak. "At first, I thought it was just because you wanted alone time." Toko doesn’t say anything. She can’t speak, because anything is a hint to Makoto. Any slip in her facial expression, anything she says will be picked apart until the truth is revealed. Unfortunately, Toko doesn’t realize just how grossly she underestimated Makoto until it is a bit too late.
“You're Genocide Jack, aren't you?” Makoto asks, tilting his head slightly as he looks at her. “Or, more accurately, Genocide Jill.” Toko inhales so sharply that she nearly chokes on her own breath. She clenches her fists in her lap and turns her gaze towards Makoto, steeling her nerves and preparing herself for the inevitable disgusted reaction that she would be faced with. She used to hope for people to be more understanding, but it seemed that was a wish too unrealistic.
Makoto seems dead-set on proving her every expectation wrong, and her eyes widen as she takes in his entirely too calm expression, relaxed posture, and reassuring smile. "I trust you," he says, looking at her with such open and honest eyes that she feels as if he is seeing straight through her. His hands are settled on his knees, not wrapped around the hilt of a weapon like she expected.
"Why?" Toko whispers before she can stop herself. She wants to do so much more- like scream in his face until her voice is raw- but she doesn't. Her hands itch towards her pockets, where the other part of her keeps her scissors, and dread coils in her stomach. “You shouldn’t.”
“You’re not a bad person,” Makoto whispers, placing a hand on her shoulder. Heat prickles under her skin at his touch. She tries to back away for the boy’s sake, but Makoto doesn’t so much as move. His hand is a reassuring weight on her shoulder, and Toko can’t help but feel as if the pressures she feels are slowly slipping away. Even then, she can’t stop her characteristic objection from falling from her lips.
“I a-am,” Toko argues passionately. Her hands tremble at her sides and she feels a tear slip down her cheek.
“No, you’re not,” Makoto argues with conviction. Toko wants to feel grateful for his support, but all she can truly sense is the increased blurring of the line between herself and the serial killer she houses in her body. Genocide Jill is clawing at her skin from the insides, creating an uncomfortable prickling sensation that makes Toko want to itch her skin right off. “I’ll prove it to you.”
Toko squints at him in confusion. How will he prove it to her? Is he going to show her something? She feels her own hesitation clouding her thoughts, but she reluctantly pushes it away. Toko watches as Makoto takes the knife she hadn’t ended up needing in his hands, looking at it for a moment before holding it against his palm.
“Makoto, w-what are you doing?” Toko asks, nausea stewing in her gut as her gaze flits from the knife in Makoto’s hand to the determination in his eyes. Makoto simply looks up at her and smiles softly, letting the knife fall into his hand just hard enough to draw blood. Toko can’t help but look, and suddenly she feels the ever-familiar pressure that tugs at her gut and forces her to the background. Her vision is swallowed by darkness and before she knows it, Genocide Jill is in control.
“Hey, Genocide Jill,” Makoto greets her. Toko watches in mute horror as he doesn’t take a step backwards, doesn’t glare, doesn’t do anything. She wants to scream for him to get away, to run while he can.
“Hey, Big Mac!” a voice too crazed to be hers chirps. Inwardly, Toko winces at the cheeriness of the other’s voice. It hurts her ears. “What’s up?”
“Nothing really,” Makoto shrugs, looking entirely too calm despite the fact that he is alone in a room with a serial killer. Toko’s heart is hammering in her chest, as she’s forced to watch her friend interact with the dangerous other part of her from an outside perspective. “Just making sure you’re alright.”
“Well, thanks!” Genocide Jill grins. Toko closes her eyes and claps her hands over her ears, not wanting to stomach the potential scenarios racing through her head. She can’t blink without seeing herself standing over Makoto’s corpse, scissors grasped in shaking hands.
After an immeasurable amount of time, Toko feels the familiar tugging feeling in her gut and she follows it without hesitance. When she opens her eyes once more, she finds herself staring at Makoto, who is now sitting on the bed across from her. He looks entirely unbothered by the whole exchange, so much so that Toko can’t help but voice her thoughts. “Why’d you d-do that?”
“Because you’re my friend and I care about you,” Makoto replies sincerely. Before Toko can think about what she’s doing, she’s regaining control and launching herself into Makoto’s arms. Thankfully, Makoto seems to be expecting this, and his arms open wide. She closes her eyes and lets the tears slide down her face, as Makoto rubs her back reassuringly. That day, Toko takes her first step towards self-acceptance and bridging the gap between the different versions of herself. That day, Makoto Naegi pulls her from the darkness and into the light.
Aoi Asahina is exhausted.
She's been swimming for the past three hours, and her muscles are burning. There's a fire licking its way up her skin, but Hina keeps going. She needs to keep going. This is all she has. Swimming is all she has.
Asahina just makes it to the other end of the pool, finishing what will be her four hundredth lap, when she hears the door to the boys locker room open. Placing her arms on the pavement, she watches as Makoto exits the locker room. He seems to be looking for someone, and as his gaze flits around the pool and comes to stop on her, Asahina realizes that he is looking for her. She watches in confusion as he walks closer.
"Hey, Hina," Makoto says softly, moving to crouch on the pavement. There's something about the sight of him sitting by the side of the pool with his casual clothes that warms Asahina's heart.
"Hi," she replies. Her muscles still burn and her breaths are still far too labored. Her chest heaves as she struggles to regain her breath. After a moment of recollection, Asahina pulls herself out of the pool and sits next to Makoto, resolutely ignoring the chills that race across her body. Makoto notices and hands her the towel he has in his left hand. Asahina resists the urge to laugh at just how observant the boy is.
“How long were you in here?”
Asahina wants to lie, but she knows Makoto will pick up on her dishonesty right away. The boy is remarkably astute when it comes to other people. It’s this realization that leads her to tell him the truth. “Um, three hours?”
Makoto’s eyes widen impossibly, and Asahina squints at him in confusion. He rubs a hand over his face and looks at her, face pinched with something unreadable. Immediately, she wants to reject his kindness. She doesn’t deserve it.
“That’s… a long time,” Makoto eventually remarks. He seems to be at a loss for words, and in any other situation, Asahina would rejoice at the fact that she made him speechless. However, she can’t help but feel strangely guilty, for some reason.
Asahina tries to say something, but her voice dies in her throat. Her resolve is slowly crumbling in the face of Makoto’s knowing gaze. Shame settles heavily in her chest and she can’t help but feel robbed of her breath. For a long, painful moment, silence descends upon the space. Asahina contemplates what to do, what to say to break the awkward tension. She looks over to Makoto, only to find that he’s already looking at her. He doesn’t appear to be annoyed, as she expected him to be. Instead, Makoto looks almost concerned. Asahina quickly dismisses the notion, putting it down to her overactive imagination.
Just as her thoughts begin to spiral downwards again, Asahina feels a sudden grip on her shoulders. Makoto hugs her, whispering affirmations in her ear. The two stumble out of the pool area arm in arm, laughing under their breath. It isn't until Asahina's laying down in bed that night, about to go to sleep, when she realizes that she had likely drenched Makoto with water when she hugged him. He hadn't complained once.
Sakura Ogami feels too strong.
She's proud of her strength, which she has cultivated from years of training at her family's dojo. Still, she notices the passing glances from other students. She notices how their postures stiffen when they walk too close to her, how their eyes widen with fear when she walks up to them. She hears the hushed whispers behind her back and the taunts in the locker room. She hears the hissed insults, sees the disgusted glares. Sakura takes it all in stride, because that’s what she was trained to do.
When Sakura first meets Makoto Naegi, he walks right up to her, not so much as flinching. She can’t help but feel skeptical at his lack of fear. Sakura straightens her back and looms over him, waiting for his posture to stiffen and his eyes to turn afraid. The moment never happens, and she is left waiting for a reaction that never actually occurs. He introduces himself and Sakura stumbles through an awkward self-introduction, too confused by the boy to worry about making a proper first impression. The messy haired boy eventually walks away and Sakura watches his retreating back, wondering what just happened.
Throughout the days that follow their first meeting, Sakura watches Makoto Naegi. She watches as he interacts with everyone in the class, drawing smiles and nods out of even the most reclusive of their classmates. She can’t help but wonder if she is a charity case to him—nothing more than an obstacle to overcome. Makoto doesn’t approach her again after their first meeting, however, and the notion slips from her mind.
The school’s exercise room becomes Sakura’s home, almost. She only ventures out of that room for meals and sleep. If her other classmates notice her sudden withdrawal from social interaction, they don’t comment on it. She then wonders if they’re secretly glad that they don’t have to be around her. The weights in her hands suddenly feel a lot heavier.
One night after dinner, Sakura is training in the exercise room when she hears a rapping sound on the door. She hardly gets the chance to turn around before Makoto himself walks in the room. He looks around the space with interest, before his eyes settle on her and a smile works its way onto his face. Sakura glances over her shoulder, wondering if he’s looking at something behind her. Evidently, he isn’t, because he murmurs a greeting and walks closer to her, as if intending to start a conversation. Sakura lifts the weights in her hands and pretends not to notice him, which works for all of two seconds. The boy is stupidly persistent, it seems.
“What do you want?” Sakura eventually bites out, speaking a lot more harshly than she intends to. She’s grown to accept that, in order to avoid disappointment, she needs to stop having expectations in the first place. Thus, even Makoto’s vibrant, friendly disposition has no effect on her. At least, that’s what she likes to think.
“I just wanted to talk,” Makoto shrugs, taking a seat on the lifting bench across from her. He looks strangely out of place amidst the exercise gear scattered around the room. Sakura idly wonders if she could bench the boy himself. Probably, she thinks. Somehow, Makoto must sense her thought process, because he chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, I probably look very out of place here.”
Sakura simply nods, not wanting to betray any of her thoughts. It’s dangerous for her to enter the conversation. Once she does, she’s opening the doors for insults, glares, glances. She manifests an interest in the weights in her hands, which isn’t exactly hard to do, and waits for the boy to walk away.
"Your strength is your own,” Makoto murmurs. Sakura wonders if she imagined the statement. She can feel his intent gaze carving holes in the side of her face and she just has to wonder just who this scrawny boy is. How could he have read her so easily? She’s not an open book, that’s for sure. Makoto is seemingly unaware of his own influence, as he continues speaking casually. "You shouldn’t think about whatever foolish things people have said to you in the past, because those people are ruled by fear. You, on the other hand? You're ruled by strength.”
“I-”
“Fuck anyone who thinks differently.” Sakura’s eyes widen at the uncharacteristic curse uttered by the brown-haired boy. She chances a glance at Makoto, only to find that he looks entirely serious. He almost looks indignant, as if other people’s disrespect of her makes him upset. Sakura shakes her head in disbelief and the boy frowns. “I’m serious. You can’t live to please other people, or you’ll never truly live.”
Says the people pleaser, Sakura murmurs under her breath. She doesn’t realize she’s spoken out loud until she sees a brief flicker of surprise in Makoto’s eyes. The tension thickens along the space, and Sakura can’t help but feel as if she’s driven away the one person that would’ve genuinely been friends with her.
“I was incredibly unremarkable as a kid,” Makoto admits. Sakura raises her eyebrows at the sudden admission. Is he trying to make her pity him? The sincere expression on his face disproves that theory immediately. In fact, the boy looks pensive, as if contemplating something. A few seconds later, he shakes his head and continues to speak. “I mean, I still kind of am. As you know, I’m the Ultimate Lucky Student. I’ve never quite gone into detail about how I got into Hope’s Peak, but… I won a lottery drawing.” Sakura looks at him in disbelief. Makoto nods and averts his gaze, as if embarrassed and disappointed in himself. Sakura’s thoughts are racing a mile a minute. She never would have expected Makoto- headstrong, confident Makoto- to be insecure.
“I don’t really deserve to be here,” Makoto shoves his hands in his pockets, readjusting his position on the bench. He stares down at his feet for a moment. “You all are so talented. You worked so hard to get here, and all I had to do was write my name down.”
“You deserve to be here,” Sakura finally replies.
“And you do too,” Makoto grins, his gaze turning mischievous. Sakura is starting to understand why the boy looks so fearsome in the class trials. She fell right into his verbal trap, didn’t she? “You’ve worked harder than anyone here. You deserve to be here and, most importantly, you deserve to be recognized for it.”
The clock ticks on the wall adjacent to them. Sakura bites her lip, not quite sure how to proceed. She just wants to go back to her training, but a certain brown-haired boy evidently doesn’t want that to happen. Makoto must notice her sudden caginess, because he gets up from the bench and sighs.
“I’m kind of jealous of you, honestly,” Makoto says, his head bent down towards the ground. Sakura briefly wishes she could see the expression on his face, so that she could discern just what is going through his head. His head remains bent down to the ground, however, so the only thing in sight is his messy brown hair. “You’re so strong, after all. But you aren’t confident in yourself… Anyways, that’s all I had to say. Sorry for interrupting your training.”
Sakura stares at the boy, watching as he turns on his heel and walks away. The door shuts behind him, leaving her alone in the exercise room. Sakura may have imagined it, but she swears she saw a devastated expression on the boy’s face, one far too mature for a mere high schooler. She places the weights back down on the stand and walks over to the mirror hidden in the corner of the room. The reflection staring back at her is exactly the same as her, perhaps for the first time in her life. She doesn’t see a skinnier version of herself—one with nicer hair and a less intimidating frame. Sakura sees herself exactly as she is. An exasperated smile bursting on her face, she leaves the exercise room and walks purposefully down the hallway. There’s a certain brown-haired boy she needs to have another conversation with.
Celestia Ludenberg doesn't feel. She's the Ultimate Gambler, and she prides herself on keeping her emotions far away. She can suppress them with the blink of an eye. Furthermore, she's grown so practiced with this habit that she can't quite feel anything anymore.
She first realizes that her emotions are muted when the first murder occurs. Everyone is understandably frazzled, but she doesn’t feel much of anything. Celeste justifies that it’s just because she didn’t know the victim well, but the excuse falls flat in her mind. It seems that nothing will surprise her anymore. After all, if murder doesn’t incite a reaction, then what will? What lengths will she have to go to feel whole again? Did she always carry this empty feeling in her chest? Celeste rather feels like a jumbled mess of puzzle pieces, disconnected and scrambled.
The first time Celeste ever lied, she failed. She was so nervous about pulling it off that she neglected to conceal the outward signs of her distress. That day, she was chewed out by her parents. Since then, she has never quite been the same. She lied and lied and lied, until the point where she didn’t know when she herself was lying or telling the truth. Celeste found herself habitually responding to questions with lies, until she ended up stuck in her own webbed mess of untruths.
In all her life, her parents were the only ones to catch her in a lie. That first time she lied was the only time someone ever noticed her dishonesty. After that, she grew more practiced and experienced. Celeste felt herself falling down an inescapable rabbit hole. With no way out, she had no choice but to continue lying. Even despite her internal distress, she was never discovered again. At least, not until Makoto Naegi.
Makoto is an interesting boy. He looks entirely ordinary in appearance, yet his personality is so intriguing that Celeste can’t help but want to assess his reactions to things. He’s expressive—so much so that she finds herself studying his emotions and copying them herself. After all, she learned how to lie through observation. It’s only natural that she looks at people through an analytical lens.
Celeste is sitting in the dining hall one night when she is joined by one of her classmates. It’s Makoto, of course. He sits down across from her and Celeste watches as the dim lighting in the dining room seems to seep towards him. Her eyes can’t help but feel drawn to him too, like a moth to a flame. Makoto remains silent for a painfully long time. Just as Celeste begins to wonder what exactly his goal is, he speaks. His voice is no louder than a whisper, yet it seems to ring in her ears anyways.
"It's okay to be honest with yourself,” the boy says.
“Is it?” she asks. Celeste isn’t quite sure if she’s asking Makoto or herself. She’s grown used to the voice in her head. Even now, it aches and beckons her from its cage, speaking of feelings and sensations and everything she has tried so hard to push away.
“Of course,” Makoto nods, pausing as he evidently looks for what to say. He squints at her, reaching out as if to squeeze her hand reassuringly. He quickly withdraws his hand after a moment’s contemplation, though, which Celeste can’t help but feel grateful for. Touch has never been quite comfortable for her. “You just need to be lenient with yourself. Stop trying to suppress everything.”
“Easy for you to say,” Celeste snaps at him. She can’t help but revert to her defense mechanism, even when faced with Makoto’s far too easy compassion. Makoto doesn’t seem offended though, instead chuckling behind his hand. There’s a nuanced sort of amusement hidden in his eyes, and it makes her wonder just what the boy has gone through.
“Yeah, I guess,” Makoto laughs, his eyes creased at the corners. The smile quickly slips from his face, so fast that she idly wonders if the boy has ever gambled. He would be rather good at it, she thinks. Celeste places her hands in her lap and waits for the boy to continue speaking. “I was like you once, if you can believe it. Suppressing my emotions.”
Celeste stares at him, trying to picture the brown-haired boy in front of her as timid, meek, and withdrawn. She shakes her head. It doesn’t even feel right to imagine. This thought process must show on her face, because Makoto chuckles and continues speaking.
“I’m serious,” Makoto upholds, tapping at the table with his finger. “I was afraid to show any feelings, because I thought they would draw attention to me. I wanted to fade in the background, so I forced myself to be, um, unfeeling, I guess.”
“What changed?” Celeste finds herself asking. The boy across from her raises an eyebrow, as if he hadn’t expected her to express interest.
“I was becoming someone I wasn’t,” Makoto eventually replies, his gaze locked on the table between them. His hands are trembling, Celeste notes. “I kind of lost sight of myself. I couldn’t remember my goals and motivations. I couldn’t determine what made me happy or what made me sad. Everything just felt so… monotonous.”
Celeste nods in agreement. She is beginning to feel the same way. Each day is exactly the same. Even when there is variety, she isn’t surprised by it. Rather, she’s simply bored. It’s a frustrating feeling, mainly because there's virtually nothing she can do about it. Celeste says as much to the boy, who nods in understanding. The conversation falls to silence for a bit, but she doesn’t necessarily mind it. It’s a comfortable sort of silence, one that speaks volumes about their mutual understanding of each other.
“I… don’t know how to come back,” Celeste confesses, the words feeling sticky and unsavory in her mouth. For a brief moment, she wonders why she is talking about this with Makoto of all people. Her confusion fades soon after, as she remembers the look in his eyes as he talked about suppressing his feelings. He understands, perhaps in a way that no one else is able to. “I’m too far gone, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t think so,” Makoto shakes his head, folding his hands on the table. His eyes meet hers again and Celeste struggles not to gasp. He seems to be so full of compassion, sympathy, and understanding. Just how much does this boy have to give? Where does he find it in himself? Celeste gets the feeling that she’ll be pondering those questions for a long time. “It’s never too late. It’ll take some time, sure, but you can do it. I’m sure of it.” The determination written all over his face, in the tight line of his shoulders and the pull of his lips, makes Celeste want to throw up. She so desperately wants to throw his expectations for her back in his face, yet she can’t find it in herself to do so. Deep down, she knows that she needs to make a change. It’s this acceptance that prevents Celeste from arguing.
“Well, I’m going to bed,” Makoto sighs, standing up and looking down at her. There’s an eerie smile on his face, a resolve in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Celeste starts to realize just what his purpose for being in the dining hall was: that conversation. Her thoughts prove to be correct, because Makoto shrugs sheepishly in response to her scrutinizing look. “I’ll see you later, Celeste.”
“Good night, Makoto,” Celeste responds, rolling her eyes at the triumphant look on his face. As Makoto walks away, a strange fondness bursts in her chest. After some consideration, Celeste embraces the feeling.
Kiyotaka Ishimaru is used to feeling alone. He's always been the target of other students' harsh whispers and sharp gazes. He's gotten used to the hissed accusations of teacher's pet and suck-up. He’s accustomed to being shoved up against lockers or pushed around. So when Makoto Naegi walks up to him during his free time, Kiyotaka can’t help but flinch at his proximity. Memories float through his mind—of times he had been too trusting of the wrong people. Even with everything he knows of Makoto, he’s still too scared to fully trust him just yet.
If Makoto notices him flinching, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, the boy just shoots him a friendly smile and sidles up next to him. "What do you like to do in your free time?" Makoto starts, shoving his hands in his pockets. Kiyotaka stares at him blankly.
"What does that mean?" he asks a moment later, gritting his teeth. He can't help but feel as if he's committed social suicide. Makoto doesn't seem to mind, thankfully, and pauses for a moment in evident contemplation. He explains the definition briefly and Kiyotaka nods. He knows of the phrase, of course, but he has never attributed it to his own life.
"Something you like to do," Makoto finishes, and for once Kiyotaka is thankful for his stubbornness. "Do you have any hobbies?" Kiyotaka's eyebrows furrow as he thinks. He's not sure he's ever done anything for himself before. He doesn't exactly want to admit that to Makoto, though.
"I don't know," Kiyotaka murmurs eventually, unable to stop the words from falling from his lips. "I've never thought about it before." He ends up admitting his inexperience anyways, a blunder that will surely cause him to lose another potential friend. Makoto doesn't walk away or glare at him in disgust, however. Instead, he just stares.
"That's okay," Makoto smiles and, in that moment, he is the living embodiment of sunshine. "I'll help you figure it out." Before Kiyotaka can ponder what that means, he's being tugged by the wrist after Makoto. Makoto walks incredibly fast, considering his short stature. Kiyotaka practically trips over his own feet several times throughout their impromptu walk, but Makoto is always there to steady him.
What follows is quite easily the most "fun" Kiyotaka has ever had. He can say this with confidence as early as the first day, when Makoto pulls him into the gym and shows him how to play soccer. Kiyotaka is surprisingly decent at soccer, and he finds that kicking the ball around is a good way to release any of the stress he accumulated throughout the day.
Next, Makoto drags him to a new room. Kiyotaka has never seen this room before, but it's equipped with a projector and a few blankets. The two of them sit on the floor and watch Star Wars. Kiyotaka has never seen the Star Wars movies, and he still remembers the aghast expression on his friend's face when he first said that. He soon finds himself to be immensely enjoying the movie. Makoto is clearly very enthusiastic about the movies, as he prattles on about the main character. They continue watching until Kiyotaka wakes in the morning with a stiff neck and Makoto’s head on his shoulder.
"So, did you figure out what you like to do?" Makoto asks him again, days after their first conversation. Kiyotaka pauses for a moment, letting his gaze flit around Makoto's face. His friend has a soft smile on his face, and his eyes are gleaming with compassion. His hair is messy as always and, for some strange reason, Kiyotaka has to resist the urge to ruffle it. He clears his thoughts, and instead thinks of an answer to the question Makoto poses. In all honesty, Kiyotaka enjoyed every activity he did with Makoto. He doesn't think he can choose a favorite. Was there some sort of common factor between them?
A few minutes later, Kiyotaka has his answer. He turns over to Makoto, who flinches in surprise at the sudden movement. "I like spending time with friends," Kiyotaka remarks, and watches as a bright grin grows on Makoto's face.
Mondo Owada grieves.
He longs to hear his brother's voice just one more time, to see his cocky smile as he races ahead of him. More than everything, though, he regrets. He regrets ever trying to race his brother. He regrets that he let his jealousy take his brother from him.
Mondo has good and bad days. There are days when he’ll wake up and smile at himself in the mirror, knowing that he’s going in the right direction and making his brother proud. He’ll talk to his friends and laugh, cuss loudly like his brother used to do. With the good days, though, there are bad days. There are days when he’ll wake up and smile, but there are also days when he’ll wake up and frown. On those days, he’ll linger in front of the mirror in his bathroom. A frown always pulls at his lips, as he closes his eyes and thinks that his brother should be standing with him, [standing in his place.]
On the worst days, Mondo thinks he shouldn’t be alive. He misses his brother so desperately that he contemplates death. He closes his eyes and sees himself laughing with his brother. When Mondo has these days, everything's a reminder of his brother—Taka’s tenacity, Makoto’s determination, Sayaka’s smile. He can’t so much as talk to his other classmates on his worst days, because he knows he will slip up and call them by the wrong name.
Mondo is having one of his worst days when he finds himself sitting in the library. He picks up a book and pretends to read it. He pretends that he’s not thinking about his brother, and he pretends that he understands how the princess manages to defeat her enemy when she hasn’t even trained her magic yet.
Makoto joins him some time later. The moment he enters, Mondo contemplates muttering out an excuse and returning to the solace of his dorm room. However, Makoto looks at him, a knowing gleam in his eyes, and Mondo feels rooted to the spot. He doesn’t have a choice any longer. [He never quite had a choice, did he?]
"Have you ever regretted doing something?" Mondo finds himself asking. He immediately wishes he hadn’t asked the question as he sees Makoto swivel around in his chair, but he relaxes when he sees that his friend has an easy smile on his face.
"Of course," Makoto replies with a laugh. His smile seems genuine enough, but there's a pain in his eyes that is far too intense to be hidden. Mondo has always been envious of the way Makoto handles himself—just the right balance of confidence and compassion. He never really considered that Makoto had his own regrets. It is somewhat reassuring to know that he isn't the only one that wishes they had done things differently.
"Really?" Mondo asks. He immediately winces at how unsure his voice sounds. He sounds vulnerable. [He sounds like his brother.] He hates it.
"Sure," Makoto nods his head, a forlorn expression appearing on his face. His eyes become cloudy and, for a brief moment, Mondo thinks he has lost his friend to passing dreams and memories. "Everyone regrets things."
In the comfortable silence of the library, Mondo finds it in himself to entrust Makoto with something that he has never told anyone else. It may come back to bite him later, but for now, he needs to tell someone. The secret has weighed heavily on his tongue for years and, for the first time, Mondo allows himself to share it with someone else.
"I killed my brother," Mondo whispers, as he waits for a disgusted expression and the inevitable escape from the room. Neither of those things happen. Instead, Makoto just looks at him. His gaze is intense and Mondo feels as if he's being thrust under a microscope and flayed apart underneath it.
"You did?" Makoto asks, his voice a mere whisper. His eyebrows furrow as his eyes search his face, evidently looking for something. Mondo isn’t quite sure what the boy is looking for, but he gets the feeling that he won’t find it.
"Yes," Mondo replies, tears streaming down his face. His throat burns throughout their entire conversation, as he thinks of his brother. It seems that he can't hold the tears back anymore. He quickly wipes at his cheeks with a shaky hand, bowing his head in embarrassment. He has never cried in front of anyone before. It's kind of awkward, as the room is completely silent save for the sound of his sniffling.
"It'll be alright," Makoto says, his voice a hushed whisper amidst a space with shelves of dusty books and desks with wobbly chairs. Mondo ponders how Makoto knew exactly what to say. He wonders how Makoto knows that he didn't want an argument on his behalf.
Mondo nods, his voice feeling trapped in his throat. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to wake himself up to reality. He feels a bit like he is dreaming, and the gut wrenching feeling of being woken up from a dream is something that he is increasingly expecting. Mondo is still waiting for Makoto to be disgusted. He had banked on losing another friend. It seems that fate—or, more accurately, Makoto Naegi—has other plans for him.
Mondo sheds a lot of tears that day. Makoto hesitantly puts a hand on his shoulder, and the gentle yet firm pressure of his hand grounds Mondo to reality. For the first time since his brother's death, Mondo knows that everything will be alright.
Sayaka Maizono wishes.
She wishes she were more approachable. She wishes she could see her friends again. She wishes she could sing better. Perhaps most of all, she wishes she had plucked up the courage to talk to Makoto that fateful day, when he somehow managed to coax a crane from the school pond back into the forest.
She's certain that Makoto notices her staring. Sayaka finds that her gaze flits to him unconsciously. She doesn't mean to do it. Somehow, though, Makoto never reacts. Sayaka sometimes wonders if he simply doesn't want to talk to her. She's too anxious to talk to him, though, so she never approaches him.
At least, she doesn’t talk to him until the night when they're the only ones in the dining hall, just before the nighttime announcement. Sayaka is craving cereal, for some reason. She's not entirely sure why Makoto is there, but if the dark circles under his eyes are anything to go by, she's assuming he is trying to eat something before going to sleep. Sayaka is surprised to find that Makoto moves to sit directly across from her when he arrives. For a little bit, the pair sits in complete silence. Sayaka's thoughts are chaotic and jumbled, and this leads her to end up muttering her thoughts out loud.
"I always wanted to talk to you, back in school," Sayaka says. Her voice is a little shaky, and she desperately tries to ignore it. Makoto's eyes widen, and Sayaka continues to speak before she can regret it. "I don't know if you remember me, though. I went to Blackroot too."
"You're kidding," Makoto says, his eyes glimmering with mirth. Sayaka shakes her head, her cheeks flushed. She had hoped, albeit selfishly, that Makoto would remember her. It doesn't seem like he does, if his reaction is anything to go by. "Of course I remember you! I thought that, if anything, you wouldn't remember me." Sayaka promptly spills the cereal from her mouth as her jaw falls open. Why would he think that? She knows she is in a rather popular girl group, but still!
For a painful moment, the two are silent. Sayaka slaps a napkin over her mouth, but it's too late. Makoto has a hand over his mouth, and his shoulders are shaking with silent laughter. Sayaka feels a giggle bubble out of her before she can help it. Green eyes meet blue, and the pair promptly bursts into hysterical laughter.
Several moments later, when they've calmed down, Sayaka stutters out an explanation. She tells him of how he looked in her eyes, that day when he moved the crane from the school grounds. Makoto raises his eyebrows at this, evidently having forgotten about it. There's a nostalgic smile on his face, though, which tells Sayaka that the little trip down memory lane wasn't entirely unwanted.
Sayaka spends the remaining hour before the nighttime announcement laughing with Makoto in the dining hall. When she leaves, her mouth is overrun with the taste of sugary cereal, but she knows there's a huge smile on her face. She goes to bed that night and smiles at a familiar brown-haired boy with beautiful eyes and a kind smile in her dreams. For the first time, the Makoto in her dreams smiles right back at her.
Leon Kuwata envies.
He envies the way his peers soar so high, looking to the skies and pursuing their dreams. He envies Byakuya's confidence, Makoto's passion, Kirigiri's coolheadedness. He wants Junko's charisma, Sakura's strength, Asahina's versatility. He wishes he could light up a room with a smile like Sayaka does or reconstruct something in his hands like Chihiro can. He wishes he possessed even an ounce of talent, something to distinguish him from his talented peers. Leon can’t help but feel as if he is rather forgettable compared to them.
Baseball isn’t hard for him, which was a realization that came to him in his younger years. The sport was remarkably easy to play and, before long, Leon found himself rising to the top of the ranks among baseball players in the country. His entire life became baseball—so much so that he began to feel burnt out. The past year, Leon ditched practices, tournaments and team meetings. He only went to a few games that his team played in and he could feel their resentment at his laziness. Leon knew it wasn’t fair—that he was given automatic playing time despite his attendance. Still, he just felt happy that he was finally good at something. Leon never considered that his happiness was misguided.
By the time Leon began to realize that baseball was taking over his life, it was far too late. He had already replied to the admissions letter sent to him by Hope’s Peak. He already verbally committed to the school and, regrettably, he already told all his friends and family. Leon felt trapped, entirely unable to speak up about his discomfort with the game he was supposed to love. He convinced himself that he was just feeling burnt out, that his love for the game would return. His arrival at Hope’s Peak made him come to one realization: his love for baseball had never quite existed in the first place.
Still, Leon plays the role of the baseball player. He throws baseball references into his conversations, he talks about past games and teammates and he practices his stretching in random places. Still, it’s just a show. It’s nothing more than a performance [albeit one hastily thrown together.] Somehow, no one seems to pick up on his discontent. At least, no one except him…
Leon is standing in the boys’ bathroom, gripping the sink with a little too much force when the door suddenly falls open. He jumps for a moment, but relaxes upon seeing that the newcomer is just Makoto.
“Hey, Leon,” Makoto greets him, looking around the bathroom. Leon squints at him, wondering why the boy isn’t making any moves to actually use the restroom. What is he doing here? Leon murmurs a greeting, despite the trepidation stewing in his chest. He tries to push his fears away—it’s just Makoto, after all—but he quickly realizes that he was right to be nervous. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s nothing,” Leon shakes his head, not quite sure how to explain that his skin feels too tight for his bones, that envy settles like a rock at the bottom of his stomach. He feels incredibly restless. There’s a prickling urge itching under his skin, pushing him to do something, anything. His eyes flit restlessly about the room.
“You sure?” The statement is all Leon needs to hear before he feels his resistance crumble into dust. He shakes his head, not able to stop the tears from falling down his face. He wipes at his eyes roughly, willing the signs of his sadness to go away. He doesn’t like crying in front of people—especially when those people happen to be his friends.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Leon admits gravely, in the dim lighting of the boys’ restroom. It’s just about the scariest thing he’s ever had to do. He grips the sink again and tries to summon the courage that he knows he doesn’t have. He waits for an accusatory remark, a disappointed sigh, anything.
“That’s okay,” Makoto says instead. Leon just barely resists the urge to stare at him in open-mouthed shock. “You don’t have to know. In fact, I don’t think anyone knows what they’re doing. We’re all just… living, I guess.”
“I don’t want to be a baseball player,” Leon blurts out. Somehow, Makoto’s presence is making him feel incredibly loose-lipped. It has to have something to do with the boy’s honest expression—the genuine compassion in his eyes, the little nods that prove he’s listening attentively. “I don’t… I don’t like baseball.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve always been good at it, sure,” Leon sighs, feeling the tension begin to seep out of him. He feels less high-strung and more discombobulated. Baseball is the framework of his life, after all. Without baseball, who is he but an average person? The thought nauseates him, strikes fear in his heart. “I never had a choice, though. The moment people discovered my skill, I was thrown into baseball without any warning.”
“What do you really want to do, then?” Makoto asks, tilting his head slightly as he asks. Leon tells him his dreams of being a musician, of how music has been a part of his life ever since he can remember. Makoto nods at that. “Well, I did kind of think you looked like a rockstar when I first saw you.”
“Really?” Leon asks, unable to hide the hope from his voice.
“Yeah, like your hair and your piercings,” Makoto gestures, staring at his ears for a moment. Leon self consciously touches them, before realizing that Makoto isn’t insulting him. Old habits die hard, he supposes. “I could totally see you in a band.” Leon can’t stop the smile from growing on his face. He runs a hand through his hair, feeling immensely embarrassed all of a sudden. Makoto, gracious as always, doesn’t comment on it. Instead, the boy just smiles right back at him. Leon takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.
“I think I’m going to talk to Sayaka,” Leon says, speaking his realizations aloud. “She’s in a band, right?”
“Oh, yeah, great idea,” Makoto exclaims. His enthusiasm is contagious, so much so that Leon feels his heart begin to race with excitement at the prospect. “She’s super nice! I’m sure she’ll be able to help.”
“Thanks, Makoto,” Leon says, clapping him on the shoulder before leaving the restroom. He shakes his head in disbelief as he walks towards the dormitories. Out of all the places to have a life-altering realization, the school restroom was definitely not one of the locations Leon had expected.
Chihiro Fujisaki is afraid. He's scared of who he is so he runs. He throws himself into petite clothes that feel too stuffy and dainty. He cowers when he should stand strong and he crosses his legs when he should keep them spread wide like a man. He feels like an imposter each morning, as he slips into the skin of a girl. Chihiro doesn't want to be a girl, but he knows that his lack of strength won't be teased and taunted if he is a girl. It's this thought that pushes him to put a frilly blouse and skirt on each morning, despite the strange detached feeling that threatens to drown him.
Sometimes, he thinks Makoto knows. Chihiro will look over at Makoto, only to find that the boy is already staring at him with a pensive expression on his face. Ordinarily, Chihiro would dismiss the staring. However, Makoto is far more intelligent than people give him credit for, and Chihiro doesn't want to risk him finding out. So, he puts on his frilled skirt, delicate blouse and knee-high socks. He plays the part that he gave himself. He hides the nausea he feels when his friends refer to him as a girl and he has to consciously remind himself that he chose this.
"Why are you hiding?" Chihiro hears one day, as he is walking from the dining hall back to his room. He whips around, the fear he had tried so hard to keep hidden racing right back. Makoto stands before him, hands shoved in his pockets and a sheepish expression on his face, as if he just blurted out something he hadn't meant to say. Chihiro desperately wants to confide in him, but his fear holds him back. It always does.
"I'm not sure what you mean," Chihiro mumbles, fiddling with his fingers behind his back.
"You know what I mean," Makoto replies, his voice soft yet jagged all the same.
"I'm too weak," Chihiro whispers, hoping that Makoto doesn't hear. Somehow, he does hear it. The frown on his face only deepens and Chihiro briefly feels guilty.
"What do you mean?" Makoto asks, squinting at him. Chihiro shrugs at him for a moment, not quite able to speak. He takes a deep breath and allows himself to collect his thoughts, before looking back at the boy. "Physically, you mean?"
Chihiro nods, and Makoto evidently notices that he has said it for him. His fists are clenched in his skirt, and for a second time that day, he wishes he didn't have to wear it. A small voice in the back of his head—one that sounds eerily like the brown-haired boy standing in front of him—whispers that he doesn't have to. Chihiro ignores the voice and turns back to Makoto. His lips are parted and he seems to be contemplating what to say next.
"Sure, you're not strong," Makoto eventually shrugs, and the statement hits Chihiro like a bullet to the chest. He feels tears burning in the back of his eyes, and he's nearly about to run to his room before he feels a grip on his shoulder. He looks up to see Makoto, who has a determined look on his face. "Let me finish."
"You're not strong," Makoto repeats himself, his eyes never leaving Chihiro's face. The prolonged eye contact feels intrusive and uncomfortable, yet inviting at the same time. Chihiro waits for Makoto to continue the rest of his explanation. "I'm not either. Hell, just look at me," his friend chuckles, pulling at his hoodie sleeves. Makoto is, indeed, very skinny. Yet, the boy's presence is so much more than that. Whenever Chihiro sees him, he can't help but be reminded of the boy's resilience and strength. He's the leader of their entire class, and he doesn't even realize it.
"That doesn't matter," Chihiro mutters eventually. Makoto raises an eyebrow at him, and Chihiro shakes his head. He has already said too much. The conversation is quickly entering dangerous territory, and he fears that, if he says anything else, secrets will slip from his tongue.
"It doesn't matter?" Makoto echoes, taking a step closer. His eyes gleam dangerously, and Chihiro subtly takes a step backwards. The boy’s eyebrows are raised, as if he's challenging him. "That's interesting. Why are you so hard on yourself, then?"
"That's not the same—" Chihiro tries to say, but Makoto cuts him off before he can finish.
"Look at me for a second," Makoto says, and gestures widely. Chihiro hesitantly meets his gaze. He follows Makoto’s hands as they motion to his chest and lanky limbs. "Does my body make me any less masculine?"
"No," Chihiro immediately responds.
"Guys can be delicate," Makoto reassures him, clasping his hands behind his back. He has a knowing smile on his face. "Guys can be big and strong, and they can also be small and fragile. Just as anyone can."
"I'm still a burden," Chihiro whispers. He's not quite sure if he's trying to convince Makoto or himself. Makoto seems to catch onto this as well.
"No, you're not," Makoto shakes his head in disagreement. He has a disappointed expression on his face, like he expects better of him. That disappointment makes Chihiro pause for a moment. "You're the Ultimate fucking Programmer, dude. We need you." Chihiro feels a smile growing on his face at the casual nickname and quickly tries to stifle it. Unfortunately, Makoto has already noticed, because he has always been freakishly observant. Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything, instead smiling back at him.
The next day, Chihiro goes to the dining hall wearing a pair of jeans and one of his old collared shirts. None of his friends bat an eye, and some even compliment him on the outfit choice. Makoto sends him a grin from the other side of the table, and Chihiro finds himself feeling happier. The smile that grows on his face doesn't fade for the rest of the day.
Yasuhiro Hagakure wants to be taken seriously.
He jokes around a lot but he wants to be relied upon just as much as everyone else is. Hiro feels that he’s nothing but comedic relief—useful for breaking up tense moments, but otherwise entirely unimportant. He wants people to ask him questions and he wants to be treated as if he has the answers, even if he doesn’t. His peers automatically assume that he doesn’t know anything, so none of them ever approach him for answers. Hiro tries to quell the disappointment he feels from showing on his face, but he’s sure Makoto is catching on. The boy always looks to him in those moments, a strangely concerned expression on his face. Hiro wants to be flattered that the boy cares, but he only feels ashamed.
He’s sitting at lunch with his classmates when someone poses a question about the upcoming class trial. They’re each talking about the evidence they found. Hiro’s skin is thrumming, as he thinks back to the discovery he made. No one seems to be mentioning it. Was he the only one who noticed?
“Hold on,” Makoto interjects, breaking through the chaotic jumble of voices. Everyone falls silent as soon as they hear his voice, and Hiro wishes he had the same luxury. “Let’s hear what Hiro found.” Hiro’s eyes widen, as the attention of the group immediately turns to him. The moment their gazes are attached to him, he forgets everything he wanted to say.
“Um,” Hiro tries to say, but nothing else comes out. His point has vanished to the wind, leaving him like a deer in headlights in front of the group. His classmates all smile at him encouragingly, but when Hiro blinks, their faces morph and their expressions turn sour, bitter, annoyed.
“Weren’t you telling me something about the rug in the locker room?” Makoto prompts him. Suddenly, the evidence he forgot comes back to his mind. He had indeed turned the rug upside down, in a fit of desperation, only to find a blood stain on the underside. No one else seemed to notice it, if their surprised expressions are anything to go by.
“Oh, yeah, thanks,” Hiro replies, smiling at him gratefully. Makoto winks at him and gestures for him to continue speaking. This time, Hiro’s voice doesn’t break. Everyone listens to his idea and, for the first time, he isn’t disappointed when faced with the attention of the group.
Mukuro Ikusaba wishes she could be seen.
She craves to be known, as she's covered in makeup she'd never wear and brushes hair that isn't hers. Her nails feel glued to her skin, and Mukuro has tried many times to rip them off. Even if they come off, the glue always remains. It's a painful reminder that she will never truly be free from her sister.
Mukuro has conversations with people who call her a friend, nausea stewing and rising in her chest. She wants to scream that she's trapped in a visage of her own sister, that they're being betrayed. She wants to rip at the stupidly itchy blonde wig on her head until it falls off. She wants to yell at the top of her lungs that she isn't who they think she is. Sometimes, Mukuro just wants to pull out a gun and shoot everyone down, until there's no one left but her, standing in the rubble and wreckage. Sometimes, she wakes to find her fingers itching, as if pulling a trigger. Early in the morning she'll wake up with bloodstained hands, and soon find herself scrubbing at her skin in the sink until it’s raw.
It's not much of a life. Mukuro spends so much time acting as someone else that she can't remember who she is. She learns to reply to Junko. She learns that, when people ask about her favorite things, she should speak of beauty products. She learns how to laugh, how to smile like her sister. Above all else, she learns that her opinion doesn't matter. Her voice doesn't matter. Mukuro Ikusaba doesn't matter.
"Can we talk?"
Makoto’s voice breaks her out of her thought process. For a moment, she doesn’t quite understand what he said. When it finally hits her, Mukuro's heart shoots down her throat and she can't help but think of all her shortcomings. Her hands tremble at her sides as she tries her best to play the part she was given.
"Okay, Makoto!" she chirps, wincing at how high-pitched her voice is. Makoto raises an eyebrow at her, and she averts her gaze. He shrugs and turns on his heel, beckoning for her to follow him. She follows hesitantly. As Makoto paces through the school, his intended path becomes more clear. The pair is standing in the middle of the dorm hallways when Mukuro's heart begins to race. He invites her to his room, and she goes, despite the alarms blaring in her head, telling her to stay away. The moment Makoto closes the door behind them, the far too cheerful smile slips off his face. Mukuro feels a strange kinship towards him in that moment. She knows what it's like to fake a smile for so long that it becomes real. She knows what it's like to put on a performance for others.
"You're not Junko Enoshima.” The statement lingers heavily in the silence of the dormitory. Mukuro Ikusaba, disguised as Junko Enoshima, freezes in her tracks. She frantically runs through the possibilities in her head. How could he possibly have figured it out? Did she forget to put on mascara? Was her voice too soft? Did her real hair peek out from under her wig, contrasting a plastic blonde with a deep black? How did this happen?
Makoto must sense her panic, because he pats the empty space next to him. Mukuro walks over robotically and sits on the bed. Her heart is pounding in her chest like a sledgehammer, and there's a ringing in her ears that wasn't there before. For a painfully long moment, Makoto just stares. Mukuro doesn't know what to do, so she remains silent for a while.
"How'd you know?" She eventually finds the courage to ask what’s weighing on her mind. Makoto doesn’t say anything—he just laughs. He laughs until Mukuro is left staring at him in confusion. Amusement seems to crawl out of his throat. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, but the look in them is dejected and sad. Mukuro wonders who this Makoto Naegi boy really is, and just what he is burdened with.
"I just knew," Makoto eventually replies, his tone turning solemn. Mukuro knows that he isn't telling the whole truth, but she doesn't want to press him—not when he's the only person that ever bothered to truly see her.
Thus, Mukuro doesn’t say anything to that. Her lips are sewn shut, as her sister’s words echo in her head. She does not deserve to be herself. She does not deserve to have her own role, so she is instead playing someone else’s. [You should feel lucky to even have a part, a voice that sounds eerily like her sister says.] Mukuro’s hand itches to grab the dagger in her boot. She wants to plunge it into Makoto’s chest until he lies motionless on the ground. Deep down, however, she knows that will not solve anything. Her chest would still feel hollow, and she would still be chained to her sister.
"So, what's your name?" Makoto asks, tilting his head as he looks at her. Mukuro stiffens at the question. She's never been asked that before. She has to pause for a moment to remember just what her name is. There's an instinct to reply with her sister's persona, but she has to suppress it.
"Mukuro," she whispers, despite the gut feeling that she shouldn't tell this boy her name. Something about his honest eyes just makes her want to spill her secrets. The soft smile on his face certainly doesn't help either.
"Nice to meet you, Mukuro," Makoto says, and Mukuro feels as if she's finally starting to find herself. For the first time, her name actually means something. She stares at the brown-haired boy sitting in front of her and begins to understand what being seen truly means.