Archive of Our Own ^beta

"mukuro..."

"what is it, junko-chan?"

a pause.

"nothing."

.

"big sis."

mukuro's hand stills over the blade of the knife she's cleaning, turning to face her sister. "what is it, junko-chan?"

they only have a dusty shaded lamp, bleeding yellow hues onto the peeling walls, but under its pervasion junko's face is a morass of shadow and light. hunching over to hug her knees, she rocks back and forth to a rhythm mukuro knows nothing of.

"we won't be together anymore." her voice is emotionless. "you're faking your kidnapping and disappearing off to god-knows-where for what, three years? five? ten?"

forever?

the silence congeals.

(the tattoo on the back of her hand burns)

"i'm sorry, junko-chan. my stint with fenrir— matsuda-kun—"

(a long, exaggerated sigh, turning mukuro's blood cold—)

"hurry up and get if over with, then. despair is no fun dealing with myself."

despair. junko learnt that word the day after she was enlisted as a mercenary, and found it resonates with every other aspect of her life. it's the word she'd been looking for all this time, and has been clinging to it since. this, mukuro knows.

"i'm getting my hair redyed tomorrow," she hears junko mutter as she turns away. "and my nails done. and contacts, probably. i can't stand to look as despair-inducingly boring as you. might as well make a name for myself while you aren't here. i'll shine in the place of the disappointing older sister trope." sheets rustle. "you'll let me, won't you? it'll make me happy."

she only added the last line to ensure the silent nod that follows. this, too, mukuro knows.

she's the only one who can understand junko, after all.

.

as a soldier, ikusaba mukuro dances with skeletons.

they linger, even long after they have passed. as the years shrivel and die out, she finds she's become so attuned to the battlefield shadows that she hardly notices them anymore. hardly notices the dying wishes bubbling from bloodstained mouths; the fingers twitching for a weapon long lost; the ache that follows the wisp of smoke her artillery exhales.

nothing hurts; not when her talent renders her untouchable on the battlefield.

(perhaps it hurt too much to hurt anymore.)

.

she returns too late. junko is no longer rocking. she is eerily, silently still.

an envelope with a ripped seal lies at her feet.

"ah, you're back. finally." dull. stilted. bored.

mukuro takes a hesitant step toward her. "junko-chan, we both got scouted by hope's—"

"hope's peak academy," she finishes with a scoff. she's still in her junior high uniform. mukuro eyes her—hitched skirt, modified tie, strawberry-blonde, powdered face—and wonders when her little sister grew up.

"it's amazing, isn't it. we, embodiments of despair, enrolled at a school that serves to incubate the nation's brightest hopes?" a giggle rolls into the musky gloom but it doesn't sound like the one mukuro is accustomed to. too acidic. too toxic. "this is going to be so fun, big sis."

despite her renowned reflexes, mukuro barely has any time to react before junko latches onto her, carding her nails through her clipped black hair.

"you haven't changed at all." the apparent disgust lances through mukuro's heart. "that's so typical and lame of you. well, whatever. i only need to know one thing."

(there's a what is it, junko-chan on the tip of her tongue but it doesn't quite make it out—)

she leans in, in, in.

"do you want to watch the world burn?"

thump. thump. thump. it's the triggers she pulled, the lives she stole and tacked under her belt, and her sister that mukuro thinks of when she says, "yes."

"what is despair to you?"

(nothingness)

(junko)

(her only family)

(the one thing that keeps them together, just the two of them, 'against the world'—)

she's not very good with words, so she settles on one that encompasses all. "everything."

when junko pulls back, smile widening, she assumes she's made the right choice.

ikusaba mukuro's silent prowl comes to a halt by the door marked 78-A. two others, presumably classmates, sweep past into the room without a second glance—unguarded fools, she remarks dryly in her mind, as she fingers the hilt in her skirt pocket and listens. incessant chatter and laughter and scraping of chairs blend into a white noise soundtrack she sifts through for signs of danger.

sensing a presence from behind, she tenses—then flinches inwardly when she recognises the clatter of platform boots, the blood red nails skimming her shoulder.

"loosen up, big sis," enoshima junko whispers, strawberry breath frosting her neck. "we're going to have so much fun. the peak of hope is always the most prone to despair."

mukuro doesn't say a word, watching her sister's fluttering skirt threaten the dress code's boundaries as she saunters into the classroom. she would brand her a fool for advancing onto battleground without prior scoping—unlike her, junko hasn't even bothered to do background checks on the people they'll be spending three years with—but it would be a lie. enoshima junko is anything but a fool.

after stealing a long scan across the interior and ascertaining no immediate danger, she finally allows herself to slip through the doorway and make a beeline for the window seat at the very last row in the stealthiest manner possible.

under the pretense of sorting out her belongings and stacking books under her desk, she surveys her surroundings once more. she's chosen a strategic base to situate herself for the rest of the trimester. from this vantage point, she can easily see an imminent attack forming, register the occurrences transpiring at every corner and passed notes ghosting the underside of tables. junko's claimed the desk three seats in front and is perched atop it with her legs swung languorously over the rim of the chair (much to the spluttering of ishimaru kiyotaka), close enough to reach if necessary. the windows can be smashed for a quick escape. there's a vernier caliper in her stationery case, honed to precision; a pair of shears hidden in her boots; a knife in her pocket; even two pistols holstered beneath her skirt, with more in her trunk in the dormitory. she's prepared for any surprise these ultra-talented students can throw her way, except—

"um, excuse me?"

mukuro's head swivels instantly, hand shooting down.

the source of the voice is a mousy-looking boy with brown hair and uncertain eyes. "i was just, uh, wondering if it's free seating, or if there's some kind of arrangement. i'm sorry to have startled you..."

"... yes, you may sit anywhere you please."

"right. thanks." he brings his hand up to scratch his hand awkwardly. "um, i..." he trails off, and mukuro racks her database of intel to place a name to his face. he's nowhere near the trembling petite stature of fujisaki chihiro, but he doesn't exactly emit the menacing vibes of oowada mondo, either. this is someone utterly ordinary.

"what is your talent?" she asks quietly.

it's interesting how his cheeks flush and his dull-grey eyes dart away from hers at that innocent query. "luck. super high school level good luck."

"naegi makoto." the name leaves her lips before she can stop herself, and his eyes widen. shit. lie. "i've... heard of you?"

"really?" naegi gives her a look, one she can't quite decipher. it's not one of a predator sizing up its prey, nor is it one of the reverse; she's stared down worse, but it's unsettling, how she fails to pinpoint the intent behind it. "that's... unexpected. so, uh, what's your name?"

there's a pause. no harm in introducing yourself; he's going find out soon anyway.

"ikusaba mukuro, super high school level soldier." curt and concise; no need to waste her breath unnecessarily. slowly, her fingers retreat from the concealed weapon. naegi makoto is no threat.

"nice to meet you, ikusaba-san," he says. the chair screeches war against vinyl as he pulls it out from the table before her. "let's get along."

he sits and a girl with blue hair comes over to greet him—maizono sayaka, mukuro hazards a guess—and it's not until the conversation turns away from her that she realises.

he has a nice smile.

it isn't directed toward her, though, but toward the idol. he's shifted in his seat such that she can see the pink dusting his cheeks, the curve of his mouth—

mukuro blinks, then recovers.

three seats away, junko's lips curl.

.

later, when they're made to do introductions, mukuro's turn comes last. her form is rigid as she stands, chair creaking, and only divulges two things they already know about her. ikusaba mukuro, super high school level soldier. there's an awkward pause after she sits back down, pregnant with unasked questions and rapidly forming opinions, but she ignores it.

"don't worry about it," naegi makoto says, undertone almost apologetic. she ignores him too, already scanning the issued timetable to note which periods are most likely to see junko play truant.

he lets his chair tilt back against the edge of her desk for a moment longer before turning to the front with a soft thunk.

.

she doesn't pay much attention to him for a long time afterward.

.

.

.

super high school level gyaru aren't often found in trees, a fact mukuro reasons to be why no one has noticed the anomaly exhibited behind the school as she tramples grass trimmed to perfection beneath her boots, coming to a halt where a studded heel protrudes from the canopy.

"commendable attempt at camouflage."

"big sis complimented me!" a mock-gasp bursts forth. sure enough, under the drooping branches and verdant leaves peeks an incongruous clash of Human Matter, grinning down at her.

"so," junko starts, "should i begin the conversation with a despair-inducingly conventional conversation starter, like commenting on what great weather we've got today, or the mechanics of climbing trees in the name of beauty, or could you care to fill me in on all the exciting history you learnt of in my absence?"

mukuro doesn't flinch. (she doesn't.) "junko-chan, we're at hope's peak now, and rules—"

"—exist to be followed! and there it is: the talk!" junko stages a dramatic sigh, stretching out languidly against the tree and causing her skirt to run high. mukuro eyes her attire, grimacing as it lands upon the ecru cardigan and blood-red bow resting on her shoulder and—their uniform doesn't even have a tie in the first place.

"oh, they're not going to kick me out for demonstrating traits of a gyaru," junko says airily, noticing mukuro's wary gaze. "they let me in for my fabulous fashion sense and knack for rebellion. expelling me for the same reason would be hypocritical, though hypocrisy is ingrained in human nature, wouldn't you say? as is the tendency to look out for one's own interests, without even realising it. did you know that friendship often stems from a self-serving desire for company and validation, and rarely ever from a pure innocent no-reason-at-all intention? really, does anyone have friends they want absolutely nothing from, not even spending time together?"

mukuro spends a couple of seconds raking her brain for an answer before deciding to dismiss it as another one of junko's chaotic tirades.

(it's not as if she'd know anything about friendship, anyway. junko knows that, knows she knows nothing)

"so?" junko's expression has changed into something cold and detached. mukuro's heart plummets. "what are you here for, besides that?"

she shakes her head, and almost wishes she didn't when the disappointed tuts ring down from above. "really? that's too bad. that's really too bad." her sister leans down till she's sure she's captured mukuro's attention, netted and caged like a lamb to slaughter. "shall we end the chapter here, then, on this disappointing one-star cliffhanger? or are you going to ask me what i'm skipping class for?"

"... what are you skipping class for?"

"plotting world destruction, of course!"

mukuro stops dead. she's sure she's blanched pale when junko's laugh resounds through the crisp spring air.

"i'm kidding, big sis. i'm kidding. god, you can't take a joke, can you?"

the soldier swallows, forcing her suddenly dry mouth to smoothen into a wisp of acknowledgment. the problem with junko is that while everything she says sounds strange, frivolous even, the most morbid and extreme of subjects come alive under her bitter tongue.

even the claim that it was a joke sounds like a joke.

"if you're not coming down, then i'm heading back to class. lunch is almost over." mukuro regains her composure, or at least makes a convincing facade of it, and turns on her heel. "you should come back before ishimaru-kun loses it, though."

for a moment, there is no reply except for the crunching of leaves underfoot and the rustling breeze. then—

a quiet, "it's for despair. everything is for despair."

mukuro doesn't look back.

"cue the tragic backstory and heartwarming music!"

(she doesn't.)

.

.

.

ikusaba mukuro grew up with things slipping from her hands: parents, time, junko's hand, grenades. she's always been careful never to let life into the list.

what does slink into the fray is a classmate by the name of naegi makoto.

she remembers it started when the last draughts of winter are still leaking into spring; when a game of capture the flag is held for 'class bonding purposes'. for mukuro, this is a menial task easier than breathing; she's been clinching the trophies of international survival game competitions since elementary school. this will be no different.

perhaps it is for that very reason that the restriction—that she can only play defence—is imposed.

"hey, ikusaba-san," naegi makoto greets her cheerfully, contemplation lining his features as he hovers dangerously closer and closer to the edge of the red flag's territory, an orchard verging on bloom. she follows, stalking his every movement with an eye of a hawk, all the while keeping her attention trained on the vicinity for incoming intruders. "wow, you're really good. i guess they don't call you super high school level soldier for nothing. i would've guessed you'd be on the offence, though."

she bites back an answer, unfazed by the attempt at conversation.

"right. priorities," he says, and delves in.

five tags and he never fails to return each time. six tags, then seven—

it soon becomes evident that he is the only one still trying to breach her barriers. her area of the border is deserted, with those who tried roundabout methods tagged in a matter of moments. scraping her heel along the dirt, she exhales and watches the wisps swirl into the grey skies.

"naegi-kun." her voice is quiet but sharp, slashing through the cacophony of outraged yells and pounding footsteps. he falters a little out of surprise, but quickly rebounds. "why—"

"do i keep trying? because it's... fun." a laugh bubbles from his throat, presumably due to her facial expression. "kidding, kidding—i just thought i'd try my hand at offence, seeing as how enoshima-san is causing so much havoc at our side. and, well..."

he looks straight at her then—his eyes are grey-tinted viridian, she realises in a daze—and his lips quirk upwards in the brightest smile she's ever seen.

"it's quieter here with you, ikusaba-san. mind if i keep trying for a while longer?"

(this time, her hand lingers on his sleeve for a second longer before letting him slip away once more.)

.

later, when she's alone in her room with another numb victory curled in her palm, his smile remains etched into her mind. she buries her face in her blankets, and tries to calm the beating of her heart from skyrocketing for a reason far from battlefield adrenaline.

it's the first time anyone's ever really smiled at her.

.

.

.

she's changed her mind—naegi makoto is dangerous after all.

in may, she begins compiling lists of facts and trivia regarding their classmates into a notebook "for blackmail, or whenever you just want a dose of despairing boringness," junko explained casually while filing her nails one night. some, like hagakure yasuhiro's, have more interesting records such as quotes of his rather entertaining lunchtime spiels; others, like celestia ludenberg's, only bear their titles and favourite type of tea.

naegi makoto's is... different.

naegi makoto (shsl luck)

• dangerous
• has a nice smile is very dangerous—must be observed closely at all costs
• hair—soft??
• ?? ?
• DANGEROUS [underlined three times]

seated directly behind him, she can observe and analyse his every action without once neglecting the others. she can watch him rap his foot rhythmically against a table leg and still notice fukawa touko beside him sneaking an average of forty glances per class at togami byakuya, who holds himself with poise and prestige and probably deigns to listen to lectures. she can watch him flick his pencil behind his ears while assessing a difficult problem and still notice the flashes of white scudding back and forth between oogami sakura and asahina aoi's tables, always followed by a meaningful cough from ishimaru kiyotaka behind them, who'd been appointed class monitor on the first day with no dispute.

she can watch the tuft of hair jutting from his head sway gently under the ceiling fan, wonder idly if it'd be soft to touch, and still scribble down notes on japanese history without any discrepancies or—

perhaps that last example was rather inconsequential.

hastily, she tears her eyes away from him scratching the back of his head (away from the strands sifting through his fingers, bathed by daylight) and jots a mental note to herself: naegi makoto is dangerously distracting.

.

on a purely observatory level, he's nothing special, really, she thinks wryly as she watches him collapse into a panting heap on the tracks after only five rounds of sprints, barely sidestepped by yamada hifumi still on his third. the weather's hardly ideal—sun is firing blistering rays into every exposed area of skin, the reason why she's swathed herself in the shadow of a tree—she'll give him that, but he's clearly out of practice, with a timing she can only label "average".

"how do you do it, ikusaba-san?" naegi makoto pants, flopping down on the grass next to her. "you were second fastest after oogami-san! your timing—" he breaks off, positioning his water bottle right above his mouth before crushing its body.

(it's not fair, really, how he steals the air from her lungs without moving an inch.)

after a couple of minutes of relative silence, they're called back for another run. she doesn't linger to watch him peel himself regretfully off the ground. there's no reason for her to, after all.

.

there isn't any reason for her to coincidentally run into him at the library, either, but she does.

"ah, ikusaba-san!"

it's the first thing to hit her when she steps in. following several trips round the academy's circumference, the cool blast of air enveloping her is a welcome reprieve; naegi makoto's beam, which dwarfs the shelf he's peering out from in magnitude, is not. not when it brings an avalanche of thuds against her ribcage for absurd reasons she has no inkling of.

neither is the library's steely glare and the wave of shhhs spilling from the other occupants of the library.

after bows and murmured apologies, mukuro approaches naegi's location hesitantly. what does he want? there's a study area tucked away between two shelves, where naegi is lounging on the arm of a chair, face splitting into a grin.

"i wasn't expecting to see you here, ikusaba-san. are you here to work on the assignment, too?"

"the personal essay?" mukuro slides into the seat opposite him, but not before casting their surroundings a wary once-over. it's the polar opposite of an optimal hideout. with these towering shelves closing in, an assailant could easily take advantage of their blind spots and nail an attack while their backs are turned. she wouldn't put it past anyone. she's no stranger to backstabbing, after all.

naegi mumbles assent, slumped against the mahogany table. "it can be about anything under the sun as long as it's relevant to us. that's impossible. nothing really inspires me right now..."

"i've decided on guerrilla warfare." the seat whines as she turns to inspect the titles lined behind her.

"whoa, that sounds really cool!" his (admiring?) surprise earns him another slew of shushes, prompting him to lower his voice sheepishly. "have you always been interested in being a soldier, ikusaba-san?"

"y-yes, since i was younger." a pleasant jolt of nostalgia courses through her as her fingertips brush across a dusty leather cover she's well acquainted with—an old wilderness survival guide, the first book she read. for a moment, she contemplates sharing her excitement with naegi, but eventually decides against showing vulnerability and reluctantly drags her attention away from it.

"that's amazing, ikusaba-san. you really are talented."

(heat draws its claws up her neck, an insidious parasite)

"i should start working too if i want to be able to keep up, huh?" he smiles again, slightly.

why, naegi-kun? why do you always smile at me that way?

the questions tangle on her tongue and never make it out, so she settles for a mechanical nod.

"alright, thanks." he runs a hand through his hair, tipping his head back and staring straight into the fluorescent lights. "then i'll make sure my essay is about something important to me, too."

.

(junko's voice, low and menacing, rings in her ears. really, does anyone have friends they want absolutely nothing from?)

.

the next day, she breaches her stoic demeanour for just few moments to introduce the survival guide to naegi in clipped but no less avid sentences, and her passion must have shown on her face, because his eyes are twinkling when she finishes.

"sure, i'll check it out when i've finished the assignment." his hands close over the dog-eared cover, then adds, "you should smile more, ikusaba-san. it looks great on you."

she's positive she doesn't unfreeze till millennia after.

.

at a corner of the library in the depths of june, ikusaba mukuro falls for naegi makoto's smile.

.

.

.

"i came to a conclusion today!" the voice of enoshima junko sings from her seat of power. it is redolent of a throne, she thinks, with the leaves fanning out behind to frame her almost royal posture. (they're at a different tree, because junko is easily bored. mukuro is thankful she isn't dabbling in more adventurous places like the past four times.)

"what is it, junko-chan?" mukuro takes her position at the roots. now that they're halfway through the school year, she has to give her sister credit for timing her truancy such that she still clocks in the bare minimum of seventy-five percent attendance, unless she tampered with the system too.

crunch. the sound of junko devouring her apple spears the air.

"you know, i was just thinking about how boring this school is, you know? it's so boring i could cry, and it's all so wrong. they're supposed to be despairing with us!"

"who?"

crunch. "the pinnacles of hope, of course!"

ah. mukuro stiffens.

"so, you know, i was thinking about connections," junko continues. her voice is light, but it has a darker, sharper edge to it, folding into a dagger against mukuro's spine in the fall breeze. "it'd be nice to know more people, you know? expand our sphere of influence. especially to our upperclassmen. we can't all be as gloomy as a certain soldier recluse, can we?"

"n-no, i don't..."

"oh, but of course you wouldn't know, would you?" mukuro imagines junko's lips pursing, eyes dimming the way they always did when this topic rolled around. "poor, poor you. always the disappointing sister. always the unpopular one. always the source of the dullest despair i've ever had the misfortune of experiencing."

inhale. exhale. "i'm sorry, junko-chan."

crunch. "well, whatever!" as if switch was flipped, junko shifts into a more cheerful disposition before mukuro can comprehend the change. "i know a way you can be less of a disappointment, big sis!"

not quite believing what she hears, mukuro stands and moves for a clear view of junko's expression.

"see him? that herbivore boy?" junko drawls, and mukuro's gaze follows the direction of her manicured nails and to fall upon him, just as he turns around and his eyes catch hers (like a predator paralysing its prey; surely that must be it). he's with hagakure yasuhiro and several of their classmates, probably taking a shortcut through the courtyard. wrapped up in what appears to be heated discussion, maizono and kuwata don't notice naegi slowing to a stop behind them.

he hesitates. when she doesn't move, the corners of his lips tilt upwards into an awkward smile.

(her breath hitches in her throat, walls closing in and bars crashing down. this boy is dangerous, duplicitous, because he's the only one to truly smile at her, ever—)

"naegi makoto, super high school level luck?" her voice is flat, betraying no emotion. junko gestures lazily. "he's the epitome of normalcy. all the data on him i've garnered is unremarkable. what about him?"

a pause. her sister brings the blood-red apple to her lips, circling the last of its skin with her tongue.

"i want him," she says, plunging her teeth down with a crunch, "to despair."

and ikusaba mukuro feels her bones break in response.

.

"i know you have feelings for him, big sis—" mukuro chokes. "—and i'm perfectly fine with that, y'know? really! i do question your taste in men, of course, but if it's the herbivore boy you want i'll be the supportive sister i always am."

"r-really?" mukuro doesn't dare to look up; doesn't dare to look into junko's face in fear of what she might find. "y-you don't mind, junko-chan?"

"of course not!" junko trills, and relief washes over her for a fraction of a second. she raises her head tentatively—

"it'll only bring you more despair in the end, after all."

(the dagger digs deeper.)

"not to mention," she adds casually, "it'll make me happy, big sis."

.

.

.

"ikusaba-san, i'm fine. really." naegi gently pushes against her unrelenting arm, as if she's made of paper, delicate and frail and prone to crumpling at any moment.

(she wants to cry but she can't. she's long past crying)

"naegi-kun, i believe you're the one who just fell down the stairs. you could have been hurt. as an appointed honorary member of the health committee, it's my duty to accompany you to the infirmary to ensure your condition does not worsen."

"i'm fine! i don't need to go," he insists, and he's still trying to smile even then, still trying to reassure her with those crooked lips and she wants to grab his shoulders and shake him and scream stay away from me stay away from me stay away from—

he winces. "alright, so maybe my knee and elbow are a little sore. but don't worry, ikusaba-san, it's nothing—"

"no!" the cry is wrenched from her throat before she can stop it, compose herself into her usual icy withdrawn armour. his head snaps up, shock blazing in his irises.

neither speaks.

her saliva is a double-edged sword as it lodges in her throat when she swallows, puncturing her organs with her swift expertise and forming a faint buzz against the numbness—

"alright, then."

she doesn't look up. she doesn't know if she should.

(but she's sure that if she did, she would've seen the smile she loves grace his lips)

"alright," he repeats, and it's more soothing this time, more kind. "hey, ishimaru-kun?" the prefect's coming down the corridor, flanked by a guffawing oowada mondo and an amused-looking fujisaki chihiro. "ikusaba-san is taking me to the infirmary because i fell down. could you put my name down on the class note?"

"of course, naegi-kun!" ishimaru nods with rapt attention. "i'll make sure to fulfill my responsibilities as hall monitor, so simply focus on your convalescence!"

"thanks," naegi says, watching the trio stride in the direction of their classroom, nodding to acknowledge fujisaki's timid "get well soon, naegi-kun", before turning to mukuro. "and thanks for always looking out for me, too, ikusaba-san."

thank you.

they're foreign words, ones she only knows dictionary definitions of, but she decorates the margins of her notebook with them anyway and lets him paint her life with newfound meaning.

.

.

.

winter comes. they don't mention winter. or christmas.

junko lets the screeching winds sink their scythes into her throat and doesn't speak until it's spring again.

.

.

.

when it's time to shuffle seats, mukuro makes sure to monopolise the one behind naegi again.

"i'm glad we're still sitting together, ikusaba-san!" (she almost has to look away from the radiance of his smile.) "let's get along well this year too, alright?"

she merely nods. she's not sure why she chose this arrangement, given that she's already memorised every crease of his jacket and every stray strand of hair from all those days of observing and wondering, but it's... not disagreeable, somehow.

.

.

.

"just don't get too close for comfort." junko's finger strokes the outlines of mukuro's jaw, a caricature of tenderly sisterhood before she hooks her nail in, crimson blade against tanned flesh. "carnivore girls and herbivore boys, they just don't get along. not like the two of us."

(she wants to say yes, junko-chan like it's all she's ever known but she can't because it isn't. not anymore.)

"what's next?" she asks instead.

the nail sinks deeper. she's a perfect nightmare, the worst kind, the ones that leave you gasping and never let you breathe. "the student council. the reserve course. kamukura izuru. and then—"

she leans in, in, in.

"the world."

as a soldier, ikusaba mukuro has never felt the urge to employ the assistance of makeup (with the exception of camouflage face paint, a necessity). after all, on a battlefield, she only has her abilities to rely on and no one else's. her natural reflexes, her thirst for survival carved into her soul—she was born into the language of combat.

but now, whenever she looks in the mirror, she finds cheeks caked alabaster and narrowed smouldering eyelids staring back at her.

"do you know why i'm doing this?" junko's fingers are deft as they skim her face with brushes and pencils, ebbing momentarily to appraise her artwork before flowing forth once more. her touch is gentle, delicate like a sculptor's, but mukuro stiffens. she's been under fire too long not to recognise the calm before the storm.

sure enough, the act shatters. junko's caress hardens to graze as she circles round to jerk an eye open, holding the glassy blue lens before mukuro's grey irises. the same colour junko was so eager to rid herself of, so long ago; this, too, mukuro knows.

"i'm doing this for us," the gyaru whispers, never relinquishing her iron grip prising the eye open, but placing the contact lens on the tip of mukuro's finger. "i'm doing this for you. this is what we've been dreaming of, since the day the world tried to leave us behind. this is what we wanted.

"being my imposter suits you perfectly, big sis." the croon creeps over her skin with a chill. "it really does."

you never had much of an identity in the first place, after all. not without me.

.

the day enoshima junko became otonashi ryouko, mukuro pulls back her eyelid and sets the lens in.

(the transparent film is featherlight but weighs akin to a gun, a knife, a grenade—just another weapon to let slip from her fingers into the pyre, all for junko's sake. everything junko wants, mukuro tries her best to give. that's the way it's always been.)

.

it's silly of her, but for the first time in a long while, she hopes.

dusty moonlight pools onto the corridor tiles, setting aglow the ground beneath his feet, and he takes her breath away even without smiling. the shadows under his eyes eclipse his light, forming dark bags brimming with stress and sleepless nights. he only nods at her and mumbles a "good night, enoshima-san" before trudging into his room. the door clicks close on its own.

tie flying, she runs and runs and doesn't stop to hope again.

.

mukuro is loyal to the ones she cares for. junko knows this well, and exploits it to her advantage more often that not. mukuro knows that. she's the only one who can understand her, after all.

junko must have known, too, that she would come running to save naegi makoto no matter what. she must've known it from the very beginning of the end, even before she orchestrated this entire farce and forsook her own identity for the sake of despair.

the mere sight of naegi caught in a headlock by madarai isshiki sets off something within her, rousing an ancient monster she's kept stored away for so long. her instincts kick in before she can register what's happening; all she knows is madarai's growl of "this is the end" and something like hysteria bubbles up within her—this is only the beginning, you fool—and she's shouting a warcry and running toward them, toward him. her fist is iron when it collides into madarai's nose, causing him stumble backwards and crumble, dropping the limp body in his arms.

she scoops naegi up before he hits the ground. in her arms, he looks so small, so frail, so vulnerable, and she's careful not to break him as she lowers him to the bed. this... feels oddly familiar.

an eye cracks open, glinting with humour. "the eleventh time, ikusaba-san."

there's no time to talk, however. madarai peels himself off the floor and launches toward her. she has the gratifying satisfaction of relishing the roundhouse kick she delivers to his jaw, sending him crashing back into his rightful place. that's for trying to twist naegi's head off.

"thank you so much, ikusaba-san!" she whirls round just in time for the other attack (on her heart, junko would cackle). naegi is scrambling off the bed in her direction, thanking her profusely, his smile already in place. "thank you so much!"

she averts her eyes. her throat's clogging up, but she has no idea why. "i was only helping a classmate."

"ah... but ikusaba-san, why are you here?"

fuck. she's a terrible liar. junko knows that, too.

"oh, umm... i was just passing by?"

"why'd you phrase that as a question?" a figure shoots from behind naegi. mukuro eyes the flowing flaming tresses before her gaze flickers to her face, and an unpleasant jolt surges through her nerves. her mouth dries.

thankfully, naegi speaks, saving her from having to answer. (that's 11-1 in her favour now.) "ikusaba-san, you haven't changed one bit. so you were just passing by when you came across what was happening and came to save us, right?"

she nods. she isn't sure whether naegi believes her or is just helping out with her cover story, but either way, she's grateful. even though he remembered her natural prowess at making excuses fall flat from their first meeting.

"so that's it... and you saved me. i was getting worried for a moment there." naegi exhales, nearly giddy with relief. "thank you, ikusaba-san. thank you so much! i was really lucky... that you happened to be passing by... i was so lucky..."

warmth suffuses her cheeks as he continues to ramble, but she ignores it.

.

(her hand on his shoulder still tingles from his warmth for a long while afterward. she can almost understand what junko meant back then, that day in fall before everything started falling apart.)

.

.

.

"did you miss me?" junko giggles, her arm and leg streaked with rivulets of a familiar colour.

mukuro's heart sinks, knowing without a doubt what it means.

"didn't you love him, junko-chan?"

junko goes still. when she speaks again, her voice is quiet, tremulous, dangerous.

"of course i did. that's why—it brings us all the more despair in the end, doesn't it?"

.

("just kidding!")

.

.

.

mukuro sees no point in taking a class photograph when—unbeknownst to all but the two of them—it'll all go down the drain in a matter of time. but for no discernible reason, junko, the least enthusiastic participant of class bonding, was the one to propose it after lessons concluded for the day.

sandwiched between oowada and hagakure's poses, she can't quite quell the discomfort stirring within her. a row in front, kuwata's arm sneaks round maizono to rest on the back of her chair; to the left, the rest of their classmates already have their camera smiles intact (she's learnt to discount togami's scowl and fukawa's frown). everyone else is obviously used to this, falling into the picture with relative ease, whereas she's just standing ramrod straight, arms at her sides.

"on the count of three..." naegi holds up the camera, eyes flitting to mukuro's.

"three, two, one... smile!"

mukuro looks straight into the camera and does.

(a millisecond too late, she later discovers.)

.

.

.

"... execution designs?"

"you're the one who knew them best, considering you spent every day cooped up in the same class as them. it'd only be fitting if you got to finalise their final breaths, right?"

"i'll... think about it."

"you're going to give naegi-kun the most uncreative and boring one. ugh. i can feel the boredom in my veins already. you really never change, do you?" junko's glare burns through her skull. "need an inspirational prompt? classroom. there. do something with it."

.

naegi makoto (shsl luck)

• dangerous
• has a nice smile is very dangerous—must be observed closely at all costs
• hair—soft??
• ?? ?
• DANGEROUS
  
• not dangerous
• has a nice smile
• love like?
• protect?
• i don't want him to despair
• i don't want him to d
• i don't want hi
• i don't
• i

the pencil splinters under her shaking grasp.

ikusaba mukuro despairs.

.

.

.

none of them are inclined to talk, not with the world in pandemonium while they're having breakfast. come morning, the other students have filtered out of the enclosing academy walls either by choice or despair, leaving behind the 78th class, all of whom agreed to stay rather than face the world's most despair-inducing incident.

you're trapped, mukuro wants to scream. within these walls, you could be in more danger than you ever would be beyond them. a definite hundred percent death rate guaranteed for all but one is far worse than the unknown of a battlefield.

you made the wrong choice. you should never have said yes.

no one even comments on how there are only fourteen in the group (twelve, plus togami byakuya at an exclusive table a metre away and fukawa touko near him). kirigiri kyouko will soon return, silently seething from being denied an audience with her father. the rest will deem junko's absence typical, judging by how her class attendance has become increasingly sporadic and infrequent since their second year started, dipping to an all-time low—when in reality, their classmate is making preparations for the impending mutual killing, and any moment now, her voice will come over the loudspeaker, announcing their doom.

now, tension layers the air, silence a shroud sewn from fear. some attempt to consume their food as usual, but fail. celestia ludenberg sips her tea, lips drawn tight. asahina aoi and oogami sakura appear engaged in hushed conversation which dies out quickly.

naegi makoto stirs his cereal till it curdles.

(she watches, and wishes)

.

"ikusaba-san."

they're in the classroom again, just the two of them. somehow, when the class gradually dispersed, they wound up in the very place where everything began. the perfect place to end it all, mukuro thinks, bordering heavily on sardonicism. she's starting to think more like junko now.

(junko would be pleased, her mind whispers.

isn't that enough?)

naegi fingers the boards plastered to the window, surveying the desolate classroom with a troubled expression. the last markings on the chalkboard (exams in 12 days!! fuck language, kuwata-kun [indecent doodles]) feel like gravestone inscriptions.

"it feels so empty, now."

(no, she whispers back, it's not. not now that—)

"yes." she finds her tongue again, answer terse. adrenalin intertwines her veins and arteries. she's afraid she'll lose her breathing if she speaks too much, reveals too much.

"you know, i was wondering..." naegi's voice trails off into the semi-darkness. "you've been on your guard ever since the first day. you always seemed so... on the edge? i thought i'd ask you about it, now that we have so much free time on our hands. if there's any way i could help at all, i... o-only with you're comfortable with me asking, of course! i—"

"it's nothing."

he isn't convinced, not by a long shot; she isn't sure if she wants him to be, or if she's even ready for the consequences of the myriad what-ifs laid out before them, but right now, right this instant, she inhales.

let his presence fill you, calm you, complete you. remember this rare moment you can be alone together—

"calling all students of the 78th class!" a familiar voice erupts through the speakers, causing naegi to jump with a yelp. "calling all students of the 78th class to report to the gym now. attendance will be taken, so make sure you show up!"

—because this might be the last chance you'll ever have.

bewilderment brands itself into naegi's features. "how did enoshima-san get into the broadcast room?"

the answer plays hide and seek with her tongue till she swallows it down. it stings like bile. "naegi-kun—"

she can't finish it, she can't, she can't. junko's disappointed scowl is burned into her bones and the skeletal-smoke memory simmers even in her absence: suddenly she's twelve again and there's a hand in hers and a nail on her throat, still-wet polish trickling down the hollow of her neck in a carmine river. lashes darker than coal loom in her vision, as unfaltering as the echoing you're the only one who can understand me, mukuro. a forehead touch and a death sentence bundled in one.

it's junko tethering her words when she says, "we should go."

"i guess." naegi gives her a long, questioning look before stowing his hands away in his pockets. "alright."

thud. thud. thud.

"hey, if—" her lips move against her will. "if i ever decide to kill anyone, naegi-kun, i'll— i'll make sure it isn't you."

thud. thud. thud.

"uh, that's sudden, but... you wouldn't." in response, the corner of his mouth tugs up into a half-hearted smile. the sight tears her heartstrings apart. "i know you wouldn't kill if you didn't have to, ikusaba-san."

thud. thud. thud.

"come on, let's go. we're going to be late, and i don't want enoshima-san to get mad." the door swings open, hinges weeping with the burden of what is to come.

(wait, naegi-kun— don't go—

they're going to wipe your memories— make you forget everything—

naegi-kun—)

her hand reaches for his, but falls.

she follows him to his end in silence.

"you were always too sweet on him, big sis." junko shreds the execution draft and chucks the remnants away. "boring, boring, boring! really, the only thing it's got going for it is the anxiety. thud, thud, thud—" her voice rises, shrill and mocking, before dropping short. "and then nothing."

mechanical response: a nod, a sorry.

junko huffs. "well, whatever. you lovebirds can be boring together. your choice if you want to deny him even the glorious despair of impending death!"

mechanical response: a nod, a sorry.

there's a pause. junko goes quiet.

"you really haven't changed at all, big sis. you're still as typical and lame as ever."

mechanical response: a nod, a sorry.

"ugh, spoilsport! don't get in the way of my fun!" the chair creaks as she whirls away from her sister, adopting a gross rendition of a foetal position. "just stick to following rules. instructions. that's all you can do, anyway."

.

.

.

junko will be pleased.

he's weaving through the group slowly, spending a couple of minutes exchanging amicable greetings and introductions. under the cover of fiddling with her nails, she has her eyes trained on him, stalking his every movement.

the 78th class will be executed in the name of despair.

he approaches her close to last, wary and distant but still within reach (and it takes all her years of practice in the art of restraint to keep herself from reaching for him).

junko will be proud of me.

"hi, umm..." his eyes scope her face with uncertainty, trailing off into a mutter. "somehow, it doesn't quite match up to reality..."

her heart stops.

don't hope.

"oh, you talking about my cover photos and junk?" her mouth moves on autopilot, scripted explanations spilling forth in the most flippant and lighthearted tone she can muster while her brain goes into frenzy. "ahaha, of course! those are totally photoshopped."

inhale.

"photoshopped?" there's a long pause laced with disappointment. "oh... right."

exhale.

see, it's so much easier when you don't.

"anyway, i'm enoshima junko," she hastily continues, maintaining her garish facade. "charmed, i'm sure!"

(he looks straight at her then—his eyes are grey-tinted viridian, she remembers in a daze—and his lips quirk upwards in a faint ghost of the brightest smile she's ever seen.)

"i'm naegi makoto," he says. "nice to meet you, enoshima-san. let's get along."

her painted smile lasts until he leaves.

.

this is what junko wants, and that's enough.

.

.

.

.

.

is it really?

.

("ikusaba-san!"

and from the heavens rain discord)

is this

really

enough?

.

.

-

–

—

she doesn't notice the marionette strings ensnaring her wrists until it's too late. she was always too late for everything.

the gossamer threads strip off her armour as she tears away from the line of fire, leaving her with a barren soul and empty lungs, frozen in place as the back she's memorised from two years of wondering sways—

sways

(she doesn't react in time; she watches him slip, like everything else, from the spaces between her fingers)

—falls, blood and steel clinging to his skin like a spiderweb veil.

(what... why...)

(why... wasn't i...)

he folds into the ground like paper (delicate and frail and prone to crumpling just like her justlikeher) dashed with the fuel of the battlefield and mukuro isn't sure what to think, isn't sure she can even think anymore with her lungs and brain and blood collapsed in time like she has, but—

an eye cracks open, impaling her with its gaze.

(naegi... kun.)

he is smiling.

"ikusaba... san? why... are you dressed like... enoshima-san..."

.

she reaches for him, mind tattered from the tempest of what-ifs and genocider syo's maniacal cackles coalesced. it's only as her arms snake around and cradle his limp form that she realises: naegi makoto is not frail or delicate.

even with thinning breath and paling countenance, his chilly hand brushing hers is still warmer than her frigid air; as silly as it sounds, she sees a semblance of peace coiling in his brow. she sees red flags and dust-speckled shelves and infirmary beds and one who sacrifices himself to save others not worth saving. she sees his smile, before despair contorted it into agony.

(11-2.)

with the world blurring into chaos around them, she slings him over her back and rises. she doesn't care that kirigiri kyouko's eyes trail her fleeing silhouette till they stagger out the doors and break into an all-out run, scattering shadows with an onslaught of platform boot clunks. she doesn't give herself time to think about the spears that were meant to kill her.

ikusaba mukuro grew up with things slipping from her hands: parents, time, junko's hand, grenades. she's never made promises junko didn't and when they did they were never hers to keep.

but right now, right this instant, she inhales and holds onto his scent (spring and hope and tinges of something she never tried to hold onto because she never thought she could)

and swears she'll never let go again.

.

.

,