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After witnessing friends die and supposed friends be executed for murder, the amount of blind faith the living are operating on is starting to drive Kokichi insane.
There is no room for trust in a game like this. What they needed to do was eliminate any possibility of murder and figure out who was the most likely to kill next.
Keeping everyone at arm’s lengths and playing the beloathed jester kept him in a space where people didn’t trust him. It is the perfect place to speak cutting words and prod at vulnerabilities without showing the hand he has been dealt.
In this poker game where their lives are placed on the line, it is important to keep your cards close. He has so carefully been keeping his eyes out for the other players that he has failed to acknowledge the very real threat a little unluckiness could hold over the game he was playing.
Not until his foot sinks straight through a floorboard and he goes careening forward straight into the ground.
The stars rush down from the heavens to grace his vision as his brain slowly bleeds onto the ground.
Kokichi gasps a few breaths, pushing his arms underneath him and shakily rising back to his feet. He couldn’t afford to lose consciousness here. By the time he feels blood start dripping down his forehead, he’s out of the empty room and stumbling down the hallway.
He makes it about five steps before his legs crumple beneath him. His arms shoot out underneath him, catching him just before he can truly concuss himself into a coma.
It doesn’t stop the brief nothingness from claiming a few seconds from him, but the sound of footsteps is enough to lure him back to consciousness.
“Maki—!” Shuichi’s voice urgently whispers, and Kokichi can practically feel Shuichi pointing at his collapsed body.
Of everyone to stumble upon him, it had to be these two. Kokichi grimaces into the floor. Shuichi needs to finish his investigation—not tend to Kokichi.
There’s only one way out he can think of, and he takes a deep breath, readying the words upon his lips.
“It’s a lie!” he says, springing his head up. His words are contrasted by the splatter of his blood decorating the floor.
He doesn’t get any laughter. Shuichi’s jaw opens and closes a few times. Maki stares impassively.
Tough crowd.
“What are you doing?” Shuichi finally asks.
Kokichi giggles. If nobody would laugh at his joke, he would. Even if the smell of his own blood is making him dizzy.
Kokichi’s vision swirls as he stares a little longer, before realizing that Shuichi’s waiting for an answer.
“T-taking a dirt nap after my foot went through the floor. Don’t worry!” he forces another laugh, almost throwing up at the nausea that follows it, “The blood is mine, I just tripped.” he takes a breath, trying to stabilize the swaying of the hallway,
“...Where was this exactly?” Shuichi asks, his head tilting without a drop of detectable sympathy.
Kokichi blinks a few times, the blood starting to leak into his eyes and tint his vision into a sickening pink.
He has miscalculated.
“Answer the question.” Maki cuts in, slicing through his thoughts with sharp apathy, “Before you lose consciousness, tell us what you know. We’re running out of time to investigate.” she spits.
Kokichi’s jaw clenches. His mind sways with the surge of anger at her cold words. Above the surface of his mask, Kokichi only lets a smile slip past, the taste of his blood lining his lips, “Why not take a look for yourself?” he gestures towards the room he had just exited, “I’m sure a b-baby detective like you can get a floorboard tried for murder. Go knock yourself out!” he says, and then laughs a little at his own pun.
“Fine. Let’s go, Shuichi.”
To Kokichi’s great relief, he hasn’t miscalculated that outcome. With only a brief glare, Maki drags Shuichi by the arm to investigate, eager to get away from Kokichi and get answers for herself.
He touches his head again once they’re out of sight, his fingertips coming away slick with blood. He’ll have to patch himself up soon or he’s going to be useless at the trial. Shuichi might be able to deduce his way through the last bits of the case Kokichi hasn’t puzzled out yet, but emotionally charged idiots might start leading them down the wrong path if not carefully monitored.
Kokichi rubs at his eyes, the stubborn tint of blood still clinging to his vision.
The apathy to his pain just means Kokichi’s playing his role perfectly.
Although if he had found one of the others lying concussed, he would at least have the human decency to mock them loudly. Loud enough until someone else came to treat them.
He places the small hopeful part of him that had withered under their dismissal into an unused corner of his mind where it would not interfere with his thoughts. That pain wouldn’t serve him now.
Kokichi stumbles away, leaning on the wall for support as he walks down the hallway.
He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and tries to ease the feeling of his heartbeat in his skull as he approaches the staircase. He just has to make it down a few flights of stairs, and then he’ll be able to wash up and make it to the murder trial blood-free. Easy.
That is, until the sound of wet coughs has Kokichi pausing mid-step on the stairs. Adrenaline surges at the unexpected presence. Another obstacle.
Kokichi moves slower. Years of practice allow his footfalls to become silent. Uneven breaths and droplets of blood echo from both sides of the staircase.
Kokichi crosses the threshold of the stairs to see a flash of galaxy and magenta shifting only a few stairs down.
Kaito coughs again into his sleeve, oblivious to the audience looming behind him. The magenta color of the jacket gracefully accepting the bright colored blood being coughed into it.
Kaito sighs, “Not again...” he mumbles, fishing around in his pockets.
Distracted.
Kokichi reaches out to him with bloody hands, donning a wicked grin.
“ Kaaaito—! ”
Kaito whirls around and nearly falls backwards with a strangled scream at the sight of Kokichi’s bloody form. He hits the range somewhere between dying opera singer and squawking chicken.
“K-Kokichi!? Wh-what—” he blinks, his mouth moving like a gaping fish, his face as pale as when talk of spirits came up.
A burst of laughter escapes from Kokichi even as stars dance across his vision, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” he leans heavily on the railing with one elbow, the smile plastered on his face even as his heartbeat pounded against his skull, “Did you wet yourself? You t-totally wet yourself, didn’t you?”
The fear quickly dissipates, “Kokichi! People are dead and you’re playing pranks!?”
Kaito marches straight up the stairs to him, and Kokichi realizes belatedly that he hadn’t expected violence to be on the table for a possible outcome. Another blow to the skull that might actually push the dizziness into unconsciousness. He curses internally. After all, a little more blood from the annoying jester wouldn’t bother anyone.
Unable to run, Kokichi uses the other tool at his disposal.
“And you?” Kokichi manages to get out, “You’re not looking well yourself.”
“That’s not important! Do you think it’s funny to—” Kaito stops abruptly. The sharp metallic scent of blood hitting him.
“Is— is that real blood!? ” The tone of Kaito’s voice is different from the accusatory anger from Maki’s. The furrow in his brow doesn’t stem from anger. It comes from worried eyes and flickers of hesitation.
In his daze, Kokichi manages to register the bizarre sensation of joy at the thought.
“I bleed paint actually!” Kokichi chirps happily in response, ecstasy coloring his words, “Silly Kaito! Did you think I was a meat bag like you this entire time?” He laughs airily, the strange feeling of relief and lightheadedness from blood loss mixing together in a bright-colored mess.
“Shit— Kokichi, sit down, you shouldn’t be moving!”
Two arms push down on Kokichi’s shoulders, and Kokichi finds himself sitting upright on the stairs. He sways a little, disoriented from the swift movement, but Kaito’s hands on his shoulders stop him from losing balance.
“Who hurt you?”
Kokichi snorts. Of course Kaito would come to that conclusion. Kaito’s the only one who wouldn’t think he smeared a dead person’s blood on his face for a prank. Delusional optimist.
“Kokichi, who hurt you?”
“Sorry to disappoint, but the murderer didn’t just... walk up and deck me.” Kokichi manages to slur. He lolls his head, gesturing towards the ground with his eyes, “A floorboard and my foot did the job all on their own.”
Kaito doesn’t move back, instead his gaze carefully examining Kokichi’s bloody skull, grimacing.
“Yeah... that’ll do it.”
Kaito reaches for his pocket again, this time pulling out an old white handkerchief. Well, it was probably white at some point, but now it was scarred with faded rusty stains.
Then the cloth is touching Kokichi’s face and gently wiping the blood from his cheek.
“Man, you really hit yourself hard.” Kaito mutters, his voice softer than Kokichi has ever heard it, “You’re not in any shape to go to the trial.”
Kokichi chuckles weakly, his heart stuttering at the concern directed at him, “And miss the best part? You’d have to kill me to keep me away from the drama .”
Kaito scowls, “Would you quit with that already?” he wipes away the blood coating Kokichi’s eyes, the motion much gentler than his words, “This isn’t a game—”
“Oh but it is!” Kokichi interrupts, his vision finally clear from the tint of blood, “And we’re all stuck playing, whether you like it or not, hero .”
Kaito doesn’t respond with words, instead pushing Kokichi’s head down to examine the worst of the injury.
Kokichi hums. Kaito never backed down this easily. His mind whirs, analyzing the bloody coughs and stained handkerchief with a new lens. Kokichi could push further, cut into the soft vulnerability Kaito flaunted so openly and dissect it to find what last little secrets Kaito is hiding from him.
But he feels fingers brush against his scalp and his mouth closes.
He’ll let himself have this moment where warm hands touch his skin and let someone care for him. Let himself be saved just this once by the one person who stands in the way of Kokichi's last resort plan to stop the killing game.
Maybe he hit his head harder than he thought.
“I need to get something to wrap your head with. Here, just—” Kaito takes Kokichi’s hand in his own—warm, surprisingly soft— and guides it to hold the handkerchief in place, “—keep pressure on it, okay?”
Kokichi blinks blankly at him, the usual arsenal of words slowly being leeched by the handkerchief pressing against his head and the feeling of Kaito’s hand against his own.
“Stay here, okay?” Kaito pulls his hand back and points at Kokichi as if he expects him to spring away the second he looks away. He walks backwards, towards the other staircase leading downstairs, “I mean it Kokichi, don’t move. Stay. ”
“Woof!”
Kokichi nearly laughs again with how quickly that earns a scowl from Kaito. Instead of opening up another argument though, Kaito just turns onto the staircase and hurries off to grab more medical supplies.
With Kaito out of sight, Kokichi stands up and stretches. His feet aren’t as shaky, and the fog around his thoughts has lifted enough for him to be able to walk on his own. He can take it from here.
He lowers the hand holding the bloodied handkerchief up, staring at it thoughtfully.
It’s been a while since Kokichi has had the benefit of the doubt. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to be believed without question.
His fingers close around the unexpected mercy extended to him—of the weakness Kaito had just exposed with this handkerchief splattered with faded bloodstains.
Kokichi laughs mirthlessly. The sad irony of it all is not lost on him.
This is one card he must keep in his deck if he wants a winning hand.
He folds the bloodied cloth and tucks it away in his pocket.