Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Guys, we shouldn't fight each other!"

"Oh, now you try to posture as righteous and pacifistic?"

"What the fuck did you say to me? You can eat those words!"

Makoto realizes a second before the punch lands that he made the wrong choice here—but any last second reaction is drowned out by the panic in his chest that leaves him standing in the route of the punch like a dog in front of a car.

Mondo abruptly flinches and stumbles weirdly a fraction of a second before he reaches him, but the strange twitch of motion isn't nearly enough to stop his fist from crashing into his nose with a sort of white sharp impact.

Crack!

The sound of the punch echoes in his mouth and his brain in jumbled vibrations for a couple seconds before a rush of pain sprints through the endings of his nerves and he chokes and reaches for the spot on his face on instinct as something pink and warm spurts onto his fingers and knuckles.

A mangled and grating noise escapes from somewhere in the depths of his throat and he briefly wonders how the people in the movies do those fights, pushing through the cracks and the bruises to throw another punch when he can barely think around the weight of the impact.

He thinks he hears faint and muted murmurings around him in the general shape of words, but his heart is roaring in his chest and his breath is clawing at his throat like some kind of a cornered animal and so he doesn’t register anything specific.

In the urgency of the situation, he briefly forgot his place in this crowd of geniuses and prodigies.

He glances upwards through the spaces in his fingers and belatedly realizes he should be trying to fight the panic and the anger that’s growing steadily inside him—but right as he manages the thought a familiar sensation erupts and leaves him shaking and jerking unsteadily.

He curses drowsily and manages to shift and catch himself for a couple heavy steps, but he can only delay the crash for so long before he falters and slumps against the ground below with a thump that echoes loudly around the gymnasium.

In the urgency of the situation, he briefly forgot about a handful of critical medical diagnoses.

A handful of people begin shouting and rushing around him, their voices panicked and their grasps tentative on his clothes. A spike of guilt races through him as he realizes how concerned these people are about a thing that’s mundane and ordinary to him—he tries to shake the weight out of his throat and his tongue so he can explain himself, but the action just leaves him inhaling and exhaling in frantic and uneven breaths.

Byakuya makes a noise of intrigue somewhere in the distance. “Interesting.” His voice sounds curious at the kindest and scornful at the meanest, and it would make his fingers clench and his hackles raise if he was capable of movement. “That’s certainly unexpected.”

“Makoto!” Sayaka clamors and lingers somewhere right above him, her gentle fingertips brushing and skirting around him before she grabs him and turns him around with a hint of nervous force enough to knock the breath out of him slightly. “Makoto…?”

“Whoa!” Mondo’s voice is urgent and frantic as he audibly stumbles backwards a couple steps. “Hey, let me—” His shoes pound on the court as he pushes forwards before he makes a noise like he just got seized by the back of the coat.

“Mondo Owada!” Kiyotaka scowls audibly as his heavy steps circle around. “The act of striking another student is inexcusable!” His voice pitches and crashes strangely and he sounds almost more like a student than like a teacher for a moment. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Hey, I don’t hafta answer to nobody!” Mondo grunts and shifts audibly out of his grasp, his clothes rustling and his loafers scraping on the ground as his voice rises unsteadily. “And I definitely don’t hafta explain myself or justify myself to someone like you.”

Kyoko walks over and leans down beside him, the click of her shoes and the touch of her gloves giving her presence away. She wastes no breath before prying his eyelids apart, the bright lights causing him to inhale sharply and exhale testily which makes her nod and hum under her breath.

“But he was just trying to prevent everyone from fighting…” Chihiro speaks up from a spot close to him, close enough to notice the hitch in her words that gives away her instant regret at saying anything. “...it's not my place to judge you, though.”

“It is always the place to judge injustice.” Sakura barely leaves her place on the court right beside him, instead simply glaring and raising her voice in order to drive her point home. “That was an egregious misuse of your strength and talent.”

Junko stomps in circles around the scene grumbling and swearing indecisively as though unsure of where to go first before she sighs and drops to the ground beside him almost reluctantly, whispering questions and demands under her breath that he's unable to respond to.

“Yeah, do you just panic and swing at everyone who stands in front of you while you’re angry?” Hina’s voice is judgmental and combative which is brave considering her height compared to his height. “Are you just some kind of animalistic barbarian?”

“Hey, how about everyone takes a second to breathe and gather themselves.” Hiro’s voice is pitchy and wavery as he mimes inhaling and exhaling with dramatic movements. “The last thing we want is another fight on our hands.”

“Ahem. Pardon me for distracting the conversation, but could somebody pause and check on Makoto?” Celeste speaks firmly, the silver metal of her finger guard clinking against itself as she gestures. “I have never known anybody who faints like that.”

Makoto almost laughs at the familiar experience of people talking and arguing about him right over his head, panicked and frightened by something that's hardly a problem to him. He tries to shift and budge himself out of his stupor already, but all he can manage is a twitch of the finger and a flicker of the eyelids before his energy gives out. It’s probably because he’s so exhausted, but it’s frustrating and discouraging anyways—he wants to explain himself or defend himself or do anything but lie on the dirty court like a rock.

You would think he would learn how to muscle through these by now.

“That’s because he didn’t faint.” Sayaka audibly stands and brushes herself down and Makoto briefly wonders how she could even know that before realizing something belatedly. “Makoto has had narcolepsy and cataplexy since he was a kid.” He always forgets they’ve met before.

“Hm.” Kyoko makes a sound for the first time in a couple minutes as she rises and joins her and Makoto thinks to himself that she’s surprisingly composed and analytical for being so quiet. “Yes, I figured it was something like that.” He blinks and squints lightly in surprise at her claim.

Junko stands upright and whirls around as Makoto watches her out of the corner of his vision. “Wait, that’s not breaking the regulations, right?” Her voice is surprisingly frantic and nervous compared to her usual stance. “Wasn’t there something about not lazing around outside our dorms?”

“Hm…” A scarily familiar voice floats out of the corner in the distance, raking shivers through his nerves and his joints like fingernails on a chalkboard. “That’s certainly an interesting question… I could punish him for disrespecting the headmaster…”

Makoto inhales sharply and exhales shakily at the threat, his survival instincts kicking in and pushing up as he drags and claws himself forwards—but every motion is shaky and heavy like every nerve ending in the whole system is frozen for reasons he can't figure out. A groan rises out of his ribcage and his throat, gasping for breath as his panic builds and climbs with every second and he starts to brace for impact and oh god he’s going to be executed in the gymnasium in front of everyone without being able to stop it—

“Yeah, screw that noise!” Mondo rushes forwards in a sprint of motion and plants himself right in front of him threateningly. “It’s not his stupid fault in the first place!”

“Yes, we can handle the rightful punishments ourselves.” Kiyotaka storms forward and stands beside him firmly. “No reason for outside parties to be involved.”

Monokuma growls and stomps forwards, about as intimidating and threatening as a robotic plushie can be. “Hey, I’m not an outside party, I’m a headmaster! I’ll be involved in whatever suits my fancy!”

Chihiro audibly bolsters and gathers herself before speaking. “Um… I think we could create an exception for this, right? Um… because it’s a medical condition, right?”

Sakura hums and nods as she stands her ground firmly beside him. "Yes, it is blatantly unfair to punish someone for a thing they are unable to control."

Monokuma flounders audibly a couple of seconds before he finds his words. "Well, who can say he can't control it?” He flails and points at him wildly. "He might be faking it!"

Hina frowns and pushes forwards slightly with her hands on her waist. "Wait! Why would anybody be faking something that could get you executed?"

Hiro makes a sound of thought before he responds almost seriously compared to his typical demeanor. "Yeah. It's, like, kinda a risky play to make for no actual reason?"

Monokuma growls and snarls at the group. "Well, I don't give a shit if he's faking it or not! He's obviously breaking the regulations and none of your stupid friends can stop me from executing him!"

"Breaking what regulation?" There's a moment of silence as everyone blinks and twists around to Byakuya. "You heard the words yourself—he's paralyzed but he's not unconscious. Right, Naegi?"

Makoto is so startled and confused by his interjection the only confirmation he can muster the energy for is a weird questioning groan. But it's enough to drive the point home.

There’s a slowly growing chorus of voices as everyone slinks and crowds in front of him like a blockade, drowning out the panic in his chest and the dread in his brain and making him the slightest bit lighter.

Monokuma is shouting and gesturing wildly by the time the voices start to quiet. “Alright! Whatever. It’d be boring to murder one of you freaks right away anyways.” He grins and ducks through the people to point right at him. “You should be extra careful in the future, though!”

Makoto finds a smile growing against his lips and his eyes like paint in water despite the thinly veiled threat, the weight slowly lifting from his joints and the frost slowly melting from his nerves. The switch from fighting and swinging amongst themselves to standing together to defend and nobody like him makes him dazed and thrown and somewhat lightheaded in a not completely unpleasant way.

“Makoto?” Sayaka walks over and bends down beside him, gently moving his hair out of his face as her features dodge and weave in and out of his field of sight. “Are you okay to walk yet?”

Makoto strains his muscles and flexes his tendons hesitantly, before wiping the smears of liquid from his nose as he moves to stand—he has managed harder paths on weaker limbs in the past.

But his chances of making it to his dormitory by himself are quickly cut short as his balance falters and his posture crumples slightly and everyone instantly rushes to his side.

“Whoa!” Mondo catches him as he stumbles backwards, the motion hasty and rough as he grips his jacket with his fingers. “Hey, no point in acting like an idiot in front of everyone.” His voice is harsh and quiet, but it has a lilt and a drop to it that sounds like there are emotions shoved beneath as he throws his weight against his frame like someone trying to support an injured person. “The stupid dorms are in the stupid hotel, right?”

“Wait!” Kiyotaka rushes towards him with a hint of regained purpose, quickly copying the gesture of his hand around his neck on the other side before continuing to glare and scold the guy beside him. “You are not going anywhere without supervision. We have to talk about proper retribution for your uncouth actions, besides.”

Sayaka frowns and elbows her way into the line of fire of the staredown. “Hey, would you two be more careful with him?” She gestures broadly in his direction, where he’s crushed slightly by their bickering proximity. He blinks slowly and stares dryly at both of them in response with as much sarcastic curiosity as he can muster.

Mondo and Kiyotaka glance down then glance back up with some kind of silent truce before shifting and hoisting him upwards into a kind of makeshift chair with one arm in the fold of his back and one arm on the edge of his legs. Makoto yelps and kicks slightly as he's moved, adjusting his grasps on their frames as he fights to catch his balance.

Mondo grunts and hitches him upwards slightly as he pushes inwards. “Alright. Let’s ditch this joint before that stupid fucking plushie shows up again.” He motions towards the entrance of the gymnasium with his head.

Kiyotaka mumbles under his breath as he readjusts his holding tentatively. “While I do not care for your language, I do care for your sentiment. Let’s go.” He turns and walks forwards with a hint of cautious hesitation.

Makoto just sighs and tries not to think about the taste on his tongue and the stain on his clothes from his bent nose, tries not to think about the power in the fists and the sense in the heads of the people around him, tries not to think about the threat of murder weighing on the necks and the backs of everyone stuck inside.

He tries not to think about the slowly building realization that his condition is painting a bright glaring target on him and there's nothing he can do to fight or avoid it.

He tries to focus instead on the people around him, fixing his jacket and wiping his mouth and rambling about nothing in particular as they use their strength to hold him and lift him away.

Chapter Text

"Hey, does anyone know where Sayaka…?"

"Not since yesterday. Probably taking the chance to get her beauty sleep."

"Yeah, thought she would be the type to wake up bright and early, but who knows."

Makoto glances around at the people at the dining tables, counting the students again and again until his senses start to blur and fade into static. Something twists in the corners of his stomach before curling and rising up his throat like bile, leaving him panicked and nauseous as he stumbles backwards. “Uh…” He tries to speak around his own gasping and heaving as he turns and bolts head over tail out of the room. “I’m going to go check on her!”

He sprints almost before he finishes the sentence, his untied sneakers catching and hitching together as he scrambles desperately through the quiet and empty hotel. He crashes against every turn and edge as he goes, his thoughts swirling and knocking together like runaway trains.

He forces himself to smother the images flashing behind his eyelids with every blink, fumbling and dredging through his pockets for the keys to his dorm. There has to be a reasonable explanation for this—he has to be wrong, she has to be alright, and the sound of his hinges unlocking is deafening.

Every heartbeat pounds against his ribcage and his throat to the rhythm of please, please, please.

The frantic denial he was holding together with nothing but frayed threads and broken stitches vanishes through his fingers the second he breaches the threshold.

The inside of his dormitory is an absolute disaster. There are slashes in the carpet and the paper and furniture is broken and thrown around like a tornado swept through overnight.

But he hardly notices the details through the unmistakable scent of metal and flesh lingering and staining the air, coming from somewhere in the corner of the scene.

He drifts forwards like a figure on a string, his heavy steps knocking against objects and brushing around slashes as he grasps blindly at the doorknob of the bathroom. His gasping and heaving is faint and shaky now, his fingertips trembling and his muscles twitching as he pushes through.

He barely registers the person in the corner—he just catches the color on the tiles and the scent in the draft and he knows, harshly, abruptly, stupidly, that his closest friend in the entire world is dead.

His nerves falter and his joints buckle in an instant as he screams. It catches him while he’s unexpecting and vulnerable—he has no time to catch himself or guard himself like he would under other circumstances, and his impact with the ground is cold and hard. One of his hands lands harshly and clumsily in a dried streak of bright fuschia, the color sticking to his fingers and clinging to his knuckles like an awful stain.

And something about the sight of her life on his palm just breaks him.

His unsteady breathing starts to hitch and choke and he tries to force himself to get up, to charge outside and demand the captors or the heavens to bring his friend back to life. But he can barely muster enough to cry, let alone stand and fight like he wishes he could.

He was the one who brought this around in the first place—the one who let her into his dorm and into his life, the one who swore to protect her and then turned and failed her at the first glimpse of danger, the one who should be dead and gone right now instead.

So what’s the point of trying to avenge her when he failed to protect her?

There are sounds in the distance, the pound of shoes and the shape of words growing closer by the second as he realizes the others probably heard him scream. He catches a glimpse of the spots of color on his fingers and knuckles and a noise like a whine escapes him.

How is he meant to stand and fight without her beside him?

There are sounds of people right outside, their voices panicked and unsteady and mixing together in unfinished statements and rhetorical questions until one voice screams and it causes a domino cascade of fighting and swearing that drowns out the dispatch on the speakers completely.

“Agh!” Hiro gives a scream that audibly drags and claws through his vocal cords, scrambling backwards until the edge of his shoe catches on the side of his body and he trips and lands on the ground with a thump. “What…?”

“Ugh!” Hina makes a sound like she’s about to vomit on the crime scene, and judging by the way she wavers and slumps against the threshold it’s probably not out of the question. “Why—” Her voice is shaky and quiet and stifled by her fingers. “How—”

“God…” Sakura enters gently and softly with a sort of resignation in the edges of her voice, walking forwards with careful strides and delicate touches as she whispers a sentence under her breath that sounds like some kind of prayer or mantra. “This is just…”

Kiyotaka pushes through everyone with harsh steps and quiet words only to give a curdling shriek when he gets to the scene itself. "This is…" His clothes rustle and his medals jostle as he trembles at the sight. "This is…!" His voice comes out through his hands. "What is this!?"

Mondo makes a noise that's a mixture of a choked scream and a uneven snarl. "What the fuck! Which one of you stupid bastards did this?" He whirls around and shouts towards the others crowding outside. "If you plead guilty now I'll make sure your death is quick, alright!?"

“Fuck!” Leon shouts from the corner in the distance, the color of his voice frantic and nervous and another unknown emotion. “Don’t say both of them are…” He trails short before he can finish the sentence, but the implications are obvious.

There’s a moment of silence as everyone notices the second figure in the scene. Makoto belatedly realizes he’s holding his breath in his shock, and so when he forces himself to inhale and exhale again it’s quiet and shaky.

He realizes he almost forgot he was alive, himself.

“Makoto…?” Hiro grabs him and turns him around with the motions of someone trying to figure out whether an animal at the side of the road is dead or not. “Hey, can you hear me dude?”

“Makoto?” Hina shakes him around not entirely unkindly before audibly shifting and glancing at the others. “He’s not hurt or dead, right? This is just another paralysis thing, right?”

Sakura places her fingers gently on the skin of his neck and then on the edge of his nose before drawing back with an audibly relieved exhale. “He is alright. He has a breath and a pulse.”

Mondo speaks up from a spot outside the crowd, sounding more tense and blunt than usual somehow as he gestures audibly. “Duh. He probably fainted after he came in here…”

Kiyotaka speaks up from a spot barely closer, his regular confidence and intensity cracking and twisting around the edges. “Nearly anyone would, even without his particular condition…”

Chihiro gasps and cries openly, her voice muted and faint like she's burying her face in her palms. "This is just too awful… how could anybody do something like this?"

Leon sounds nauseous and unsteady when he speaks a couple seconds later. "Do you… do we know for sure she's dead?" He sounds almost on the verge of tears. "Maybe she's alive…"

Toko audibly glares and shouts from the edge of the dorm. "Don't be s-stupid. If the s-scene is as a-awful as everyone is r-reacting…" She falters and trembles into a stop.

Hifumi makes a noise of barely smothered discomfort as he audibly inhales and exhales and walks to the edge of the dorm also. "Oh… I never thought I would observe a cadaver in real life."

Celeste sighs and gives a brief pause before speaking delicately. "Indeed. I'm afraid there is no chance of survival for our formerly buoyant acquaintance."

There's a moment of silence that blankets the entire dormitory, uneasy and mournful and broken every couple of seconds by a sparse sob or cry.

Makoto could probably shift and crawl to a stand by now, but he doesn’t trust himself not to instantly falter and crumble again under the weight of his grief and so he doesn’t bother.

It’s not as though he could do anything, in his state.

“The details are largely unimportant.” Kyoko pushes easily through the throng of people crowding around the scene without pause, quickly crouching to examine the stains on the ground and the wounds on the corpse. “Our highest priority here is uncovering who murdered Sayaka.”

“Precisely.” Byakuya ambles rudely around the others with relaxed strides and composed motions, wandering and lingering around the crime scene as he presumably surveys everything from a distance. “You should cease your whining and shouting and begin gathering an argument.”

There’s an instant rumble of protests and demands towards his statement, but the questions are answered by the awful sound of a certain someone emerging.

“Yup!” Monokuma cackles and wanders around the dormitory as though it’s his own. “We’ve got a proper murder mystery on our hands!” He claps his hands together with a slightly muted sound. “But before we can get around to solving it, you’re going to have to come to the gymnasium for the tutorial! Participation is mandatory!” He says the last bit with a hint of directed intent before he vanishes again.

“Whelp.” Junko clicks her tongue with a hint of nerves in her voice. “You heard the murderous robotic plushie. We should get moving before he decides to bump the rest of us for fun.” She sounds almost prepared and resigned, as though she expected an outcome not entirely unlike this.

Makoto slowly realizes everyone is glancing sideways at him, and he realizes he has to gather himself and detach himself from the crime scene tiles now or threaten his survival—and he’s not exactly confident his friends could convince the mastermind not to execute him again.

So he forces himself to shift and crawl to a stand, every slight motion uneven and clumsy but light enough. He hears a couple of people startle and tumble backwards with varied swears, but he ignores the questions in favor of pushing himself upright again.

He makes it about halfway to standing before his muscles and his features are wracked by a spasm of tears and he trips and drops to the tiles again with a grunt and a curse. His breathing had steadied for a moment but now it returns to shaking and heaving with force, his stomach curling and his throat burning with the aftermath.

Hiro quickly rushes up behind him, his hands shaky but heavy as he brushes through the nest of his hair and against the skin of his face. “Hey, take it easy.” He wraps his hands around his chest from behind and hoists him upright slightly before glancing around. “Alright, how do we…”

Makoto tries to shift and nudge his way out of the grasp with a grunt of protest, but quickly realizes his motor control ranges anywhere from slightly unsure to entirely busted at the moment and he would not be able to make it to the gymnasium on his own.

Hina makes a noise of recognition as she weaves and elbows her way to both of them with a sort of newfound determination. “Hey, I got this.” She grabs him and tucks his legs under her arms before hoisting him upwards with a hint of a grunt. “Up!”

Makoto groans and squirms uneasily as he's brought upwards by both of them, but finds himself unable to protest very much as everyone is already rushing and darting nervously out of the dormitory and to the gymnasium.

He inhales and exhales unsteadily, trying to stifle the tears threatening to claw up and pour out until he's run dry. He knows if he starts crying now, he's never going to be able to stop.

But as Hiro buries his fingers in his jacket and holds his frame against his chest, and as Hina adjusts her grasp on his ankles and absently kneads at his calves and his shins, Makoto thinks maybe he could stand the slick on his palms and the shake in his limbs and the heavy guilt in his living chest for a while longer.

Chapter Text

Makoto blinks under the glare of the light as he inhales and exhales unsteadily, every breath burning in his ribcage and clawing at his throat as it goes. He jostles and focuses on not losing his balance, the smudges of black in his eyesight and the patches of static in his eardrums coming and fading to the rhythm of the pulse of his heart as his thoughts swirl blearily.

Kyoko is standing and debating something, delicately readjusting her grasp on his frame as she speaks slowly and calmly. Her gloved fingers dance and shift as she braces his weight easily, and for a moment he watches the motion of her profile and his heart aches through the pain and the burn. He startles and mumbles in confusion when she shifts and begins ushering him backwards.

“Scram!” Monokuma waves his fists in the air, something unhinged and derailed in his stagnant features. “Leave me alone!”

Makoto shrinks and fumbles his response, his voice trailing and his words mushing together as he speaks. “Alright, I‘m going, I‘m going!” He stumbles backwards a couple of steps testily, halfway surprised when no snare or trick is fired. “You’re seriously going to let me go?”

Kyoko catches him as he falters and crumples slightly, drawing him upright and urging him forwards with a sort of nervous urgency he’s barely close enough to detect as she glances sideways at the misfiring headmaster. “Let’s not check the horse in the mouth.”

Monokuma laughs and clasps his plush hands together, and though his smile doesn’t widen and his glare doesn’t shrink he somehow darkens anyways. “Oh, I’m not giving you up. I’ve got to have some time alone to think up the perfect death for you when you fail.”

Makoto glares and pushes forwards in a moment of blindly stupid courage, staring at the machine on the ground through murky vision and shaky limbs. “Hey, we’re not going to lose to your tricks! We…” His anger surges and peaks for a moment and instantly his balance crumples under him.

Kyoko rushes to catch him before he can hit the ground, and for a second she braces the entirety of his weight as she speaks with a hint of unspoken demand. “Let’s leave and catch up to the others. The rest of them are waiting for us, alright?”

He inhales and exhales unsteadily until the paralysis dwindles and the muscle returns enough for him to stand and balance on his own and they leave the place with the laughter of the mastermind ringing like an omen behind them.

Every uneven stride and unsure shift through the academy resounds around them, but the silence is heavy and thick and the tension is sharp and rough and neither one breaks it. The weight of the phantom shadows and the ghostly echoes is too achingly prominent to try.

Makoto sighs and leans further against Kyoko, trying to control and smother his emotions until it’s safe to drop. He hasn’t had episodes this frequent and extreme since he was a kid—but with the constant grief and strain this place causes the people inside he’s not exactly surprised.

He is surprised by the tender hands on his face and at his back every single time, his friends pausing and waiting beside him with careful glances and patient whispers like guards until he can budge and stand again.

He knows the panic and the dread his paralysis should cause. There’s a quiet but harsh voice in the back of his head and at the edge of his mind that knows he becomes a target whenever he crumples to the ground.

But despite the motives and the murders and the slowly dwindling number of options, nobody has even so much as raised a finger towards him.

Sometimes the voice in his brain almost wishes somebody would, as though if he were an easy enough target and victim he could’ve saved one of the people who got caught by the motives instead of him.

Sometimes the voice in his brain almost wonders why he’s managed to somehow cheat his death over and over when people who deserved lively presents and bright futures were never even given that chance.

Sometimes he almost…

The pound in his brain and the swirl in his chest is too constant and overbearing to think. He thinks he might be concussed—he thought maybe the headache and the nausea after the night he found the traitor was a coincidence, but the murky and faint symptoms have only built and grown.

Being thrown head over tail into a trash chute in a makeshift execution probably wasn’t much help either, and judging by the scrape and the twinge in his chest whenever he inhales and exhales it might’ve even caused more problems along the way.

He glances sideways at the person with her hand on his back, and something tentative and uncertain twists in the depths of his stomach.

His limbs seize and waver at the thought and so he grasps it and shoves it down quickly.

Their motion slows and halts a couple seconds later, and he realizes their shambling and bumbling has brought them to the cafeteria.

Makoto hesitates outside the threshold, reaching and brushing against the tender spots on his face and his body. “Hey, does my face look alright?” He shifts and points at it as he glances sideways. “I would hate to give anybody a scare.”

Kyoko stops and turns to him at the question, tense and quiet as she touches his injuries with uneven motion and gentle contact. “No, you’re alright.” There’s a glimpse of an emotion on her features before it returns to nothing . “Just a few scrapes and bruises.”

“Alright.” He decides to believe her despite the panic in his chest. “Let’s go in.”

The cafeteria is quiet and tense but anything but deserted, the others slouched in benches and perched on tables as though waiting for something. Hina is crouched on the tabletop and fixing the laces of her shoes. Hiro is sprawled against the benches and tracing the lines on his palms. Toko is pacing in circles as she bites at her nails and her hands. Byakuya is standing at the corner of the group without a single muscle in his whole frame moving. When the noise of their steps reaches the inside, they jolt and perk up in almost perfect unison.

Hina is the first to stand and chase towards them with a shout. “Makoto!” She grabs his hand in her palm and shakes it around. “I can’t believe you’re alright!”

Hiro shouts and flails as he scrambles to force himself upright so he can run. “Makoto!” He places his hand on his back with a grip. “You promise you’re here for real?”

Toko rushes and circles them as though trying to examine them from every angle. “Wow, I th-thought she had l-lost her m-mind when she said you were alive…”

Byakuya strides towards both of them, his scornful and apathetic demeanor wavering with something like relief. “Hm. You’re like a cockroach in an apocalypse, aren’t you?”

Makoto’s chest twists and his throat closes as tears spring and emerge from his eyes. “Guys…!” The emotion courses through him like the rapids of the stream, crashing and stifling the weaker emotions in its way until nothing remains but the laughter in his ribcage. “Guys…”

He probably should’ve expected the waver in his limbs and the seize in his frame that takes the chance to pounce while his guard is low, causing him to falter and crumple into a heap with the laugh in his chest and the smile on his mouth frozen there.

The others yelp and rush forwards as he steps and drops, and before he reaches the ground there are people holding him and lifting him back up again, their arms shifting and their legs twisting at the awkward proximity.

It stirs and kicks up a strange emotion inside of him, a mixture of surprise and confusion and sparkling warmth. In the midst of the storm of misery and despair, he tries and he fails to remember the last time he was caught and embraced like this.

He comes to and realizes he’s being placed on the surface of the table, everyone murmuring distantly as his limbs splay against the cold and hard plastic.

Hiro sighs and eases into a seat beside him with a distant chuckle. “Hm, we probably could’ve predicted that.” He moves and grabs the palm of his hand as though on instinct, tracing the folds and the lines found there with a sort of impulsive rhythm.

Hina gives a quiet laugh and a weary shift in response as she sits down also. “Eh, at least we could be there to catch him.” She places her hand on his hand and brushes his knuckles with her fingers before taking his wrist in a light grasp.

Toko continues pacing in circles around the table judging by the sound of her voice as it moves. “Christ, wh-where on earth did you d-drag him f-from? Purgatory?” She sounds equal parts distantly scornful and genuinely concerned.

Kyoko sighs and leans over the table, the length of her shadow barely visible behind his eyelids as it blots the light of the cafeteria. “The dropway in his execution led to the trash chute.” She reaches out to brush his hair out of his face almost gently. “I broke in and found him there.”

Byakuya makes a noise of unknown emotion. “That would explain the stench.” He audibly shifts and reaches forwards slightly, but whatever gesture he was going for falters and vanishes and he continues. “We should check for anything serious. Breaks and sprains. Internal damage. Brain injury.”

Makoto tries to talk and push himself upright to clarify that he’s not seriously injured, but all he manages is a groan and a blink through his barely parted lips and eyes.

Kyoko just leans and parts his eyelids in a now familiar movement, her tense features coming into focus as she presumably checks his pupils and irises. “I think he might have some mild brain injury.” She speaks haltingly and uneasily as though slowly realizing something.

Byakuya pauses halfway through checking his breath and his pulse and gives about a third of a snort in what could almost sound like genuine surprise if it was anybody besides him. “You think he might have some mild brain injury.” The sarcastic disbelief is almost palpable in his voice.

Hiro chuckles almost nervously as his grasp tenses and relaxes absently around the back of his hand. “Yeah, after taking a plunge like that?”

Hina drums her nails on the table and kicks her shoes on the tiles in an uneven rhythm. “Yeah, lucky he didn’t break his spine from that?”

Makoto winces silently at the reminder of the throb in his brain and the swirl in his chest which had briefly faded to the back of his mind in the midst of everything else.

Kyoko hesitates audibly for a couple of seconds before responding. “No… from before that.” She draws her hand away from his face as she speaks with the closest thing to shame and regret he’s ever heard from her. “He was ambushed by the mastermind a day or two ago.”

Byakuya makes a noise in the depths of his throat, his demeanor faltering and vanishing for a fraction of a second before he speaks. “And you didn’t bother to mention that?” His voice is quiet and stoic with a sort of twitching composure.

The others stand and erupt in a chorus of anxious questions and concerned demands and Makoto wishes almost desperately that he could force his joints to shift and his nerves to light up so he can stand and prove that nothing is wrong because there are more important problems to focus on and think of—

"Quiet!" Toko's quiet voice raises over the noise of the crowd as she points in his general direction. "We have to make sure he stays awake!"

Makoto forces his tongue and his throat to move and push out whatever sound or noise he can manage. "M'alright." It comes out stilted and mushed due to the lingering paralysis, but he manages to open his eyes and part his lips enough to prove his point.

He hears everyone pause and stare at him, and for a fraction of a second he thinks he's convinced them to shift and focus on the upcoming investigation, before…

Kyoko sighs and rests her palm on his hand with a sort of subdued melancholy before turning and facing the others. "We should treat his injuries before we start the investigation."

Byakuya hums and nods as he paces around the table. "Yes, it would be—" He halts and stops about halfway through his sentence. "What do you mean by that."

Ah. Makoto forgot in the clamor of his problems they had forgot to mention the upcoming investigation in the first place.

Kyoko sighs and rests her hands on the table with a quiet thump. “I’ve struck a gambit with the mastermind.” Her voice is composed but tentative as she explains as though waiting for reaction. “If we can uncover the secrets of the academy, we can leave this place behind at last.”

Byakuya inhales and exhales audibly before responding, his words light in his throat and tense on his tongue as his features twitch with a sort of smothered frustration. “That’s… quite a risky gamble to strike without consulting the other people whose lives you’re wagering.”

Kyoko inches forwards slightly judging by the clicking sound of her steps on the tiles. “I didn’t exactly have the time to consult you.” She gestures broadly around both of them as though pointing out everything that’s absent. “Surely you realize the window is closing fast.”

Byakuya stares at her harshly but quietly for a handful of seconds as the hands on the clock in the distance tick and wind down. “…Alright.” He turns and snaps at the others hovering around the table. “What are you people standing around for. Go to the nurse and bring as much as you can.”

The others react blearily and uneasily to the order, hesitating to shift and leave despite nobody arguing or pushing against it.

Makoto almost wants to reach and shout for them to stay, but he smothers the impulse and focuses his energy on pushing and talking as he manages to overcome the paralysis after a couple minutes of trying and failing. “Guys, it’s nothing…” He gestures towards himself with shaky limbs and faint words as he tries to climb down from this makeshift surgery table. “I can walk, I can help, I swear—” He falters and catches on the metal of the bench midsentence and stumbles forwards blindly.

Kyoko jumps to grab him and push him back down not entirely unkindly. “Makoto, you’re making it worse by moving around. I can always bargain for another option or another chance.” She gently removes her gloves and rests the back of her hand against the side of his head. “Now. Are you feverish? Trouble breathing? Trouble moving?”

Makoto wavers under the weight of her stare and in an upsurge of warmth finds himself unable to lie to her. “Um. I’m not feverish.” He inhales and exhales slowly and gently and his whole chest groans and lights with a pain that forces him to pause and catch his breath. “…A bit of trouble with breathing, maybe.”

Byakuya sighs and takes his glasses off so he can cover his face with his hand. “Naegi, even your luck can’t save you from everything.” He glances sideways at him, the exhaustion in his pupils and his irises sharp and clear for a fraction of a second before he returns the glasses and it vanishes. “And quite frankly, if you are trying to conceal a serious injury I am going to be severely frustrated.”

Makoto chuckles lightly at the rare sign of something resembling comedy out of the regularly stoic and tense man, and reluctantly shifts and twists his joints around to check for sprains. He’s always had dense bones and thick skin so he figures he’s probably alright— “Ack.” He grasps his wrist as it smarts and twinges with pain. “Uh. My wrist kinda hurts when I move it.”

Whatever response there was going to be to that is drowned out by the others entering and shouting with their finds.

Hiro yelps and pumps his fists in the air. “Hey, we’re back!” He slams his hands down on the table, splaying a handful of various bandages and tourniquets on the space. “And I got at least one thing from every shelf because I didn’t recognize anything!”

Hina grins and trips in after him with her arms overflowing. “Yep!” She heaves and chucks her armful on the table with a grunt—it’s largely medication and vitamins and things along those lines. “I brought my entire workout recovery stash for you!”

Toko glances sideways at both of them for a moment before speaking. “Um. I brought i-icepacks.” She places her modest handful of frozen icepacks on the table and wipes her hands on her skirt before turning to the others. “What’s the diagnosis?”

Makoto stares at the things on the table and has to turn away so he can hide his face, scrunching and faltering with a sort of uncontained emotion that makes him shake and tense until he can get it under control.

Byakuya either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mention it, facing the others with a hint of slightly indulgent exasperation in his voice. “Just some minor bruises and sprains. Do you think you could stand to lower your voices even slightly?”

Kyoko sighs and walks over to the table and begins picking through the spread there, derailing the argument before it can start to build. “Anyways. We should take care of his sprained wrist and his bruised ribcage before we leave to investigate.”

Hiro blinks and laughs in surprise. “Seriously?” He glances downwards at him with a mixture of tender relief and stifled levity dancing against his features. “How did you get out of that without at least breaking something?”

Hina smacks him lightly on the back of the head. “Hey! Don’t be a jerk about this.” She gestures broadly at him despite clearly trying to smother her laughter also. “It’s not his fault he has some kind of weird magic armor.”

Toko inhales and exhales as she pushes around both of them and grabs a handful of bandages. “I can sp-splint your wr-wrist. I t-taught myself how as a kid.” She glares up at him as she crouches and grasps his limp hand in her cold palm. “But don’t t-take this as s-some kind of weird g-gesture!”

Makoto startles and gestures with his other hand as though promising something. “Okay!” He has to shift and tense up in order to cover just how much the gesture touches him, and even then his frame wavers and his voice chokes slightly as he responds. “Thanks.”

Hiro snaps and grabs an icepack from the table, slumping on the bench to his right with a sigh. “Here, I can ice your ribs.” He moves his blazer and his jacket out of the way slightly with mostly steady motions as he mumbles under his breath. “Why do you wear so many layers.”

Makoto opens his mouth to apologize for his strange choice of makeshift uniform before his words are stolen by the cold on his skin. “Ack—” He tries not to squirm and twist around instinctively as the man gives him an apologetic grimace.

Hina blinks and swipes one of the capsules she brought from the table, pausing and glancing at the others halfway towards him. “Is he alright to take some ibuprofen? I know you’re not meant to on an empty stomach, but it would probably do wonders right about now.”

Makoto decides he’s aching enough to disregard any medical opinion. “I had a bit to eat before coming up.” He grabs them and hikes them into his mouth, and with a lack of anything to drink he shifts and forces himself to eat them dry. “Ugh. Thanks.”

Toko stands up before anyone can question his decision, wiping her hands on her skirt as she grumbles and squints at him. “Th-there.” She throws herself onto the bench of the table with a grunt. “Try not to r-ruin it and m-make me r-regret it.”

Makoto smothers the emotion that surges through his chest and crawls inside his mouth like a physical sensation for as long as he can, but it’s only a couple of seconds before it escapes in a choked and uneven sob.

He reaches outwards before he can think again, grasping and clutching emptily at the others with a sort of childish yearning he barely has the energy to be ashamed of. There’s a moment of nothing before his friends return the gesture, hands on his tight chest and his heavy frame as he cries—and for once he doesn’t bother trying to disguise the noise and the sight of it.

He seizes and wavers slightly in their tentative embraces, the joints in his fingers and the nerves in his features coming and fading slightly as he tries to breathe around the strain. He barely cares if he has another outbreak of paralysis anymore—he knows the others would stand and fight to protect him if it came to that.

And in a halfway delirious explosion of realization and conviction in the heart of his chest, he thinks we are going to survive, and he thinks we are going to escape, and he thinks there’s nothing anybody can do to hold us down anymore.

“I love you guys so much.”

And despite their laughs and despite their groans and despite their hundreds of reasons not to, each of them inhales and exhales and says it back—in quiet words and in coded signs and in warm and soft hands on his face and in his hair.

And so after a moment of gathering himself he blinks and stands up. It's time to beat this game for good.