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Sprawled on his mattress, Minato’s shirt rides up his stomach. The low hum of the A.C unit swims in one ear and out the other, accompanying battering questions. When he shut his eyes, he pictured the thick green control room, the depressive glints, and Kirijo.
Always Kirijo.
Every mission venture reinforced the sharp wit of his leadership, tenaciously challenging the body of a teenager to mature itself in lightspeed. Every battle, every Pharos greeting, every purpled bruise became badges. Those badges pinned to the skin, to the wrinkled crevices of his brain, to the “m” etched into his peeling palms; they wore his bones heavy. All of the experience racked under his belt just to ache for Kirijo’s mind — her absent look, her twirling hair, her pursed lips. Minato brings his palms across his face —
Who knows how your dimple reflects in amber tea? Who knows the delicacy of air when you sit by me? Who knows that I think about you with blue hair wrung on my index, complex intrigue, and dancing fingers across your contact info?
Who knows why you keep your cursed secrets from me?
He counted each blob of light that danced across his vision, documenting it into a pattern: yellow, blue, red, green. Minato hoped it would reveal the secrets to Mitsuru Kirijo, or at the very least, lull him away from Aragaki’s limp body. Eventually, neither dwelling ceased, and he pushed himself off his bed. The creak of his mattress made him wince, suddenly feeling the eyes of the world shift onto him.
The eyes of dust bunnies seared holes onto his back.
Since the walk back — two hours, three hours, some hours ago(?) — he chucked his phone onto his desk and plopped his sweaty face down. He didn’t have a clue for the time other than a falling moon.
Minato rarely found himself in a state of riled anxiousness, but a frustration bit through his skin at the ruminance of the senior's crypticness. She was always pulling him along and playing — even if she didn’t mean to. Even if he didn’t mean to. Quick glances across student council meetings, wriggling fingers in pockets, touching legs — leaders don’t do that; He doesn’t do that. Frankly, he doesn’t even know what half of it quite is.
But secrets? He chuckled to himself with every passing stair step. Secrets were a Kirijo specialty; they practically made their fortune in them. When he reached the dorm lobby in fuzzy bunny slippers (Yukari, of course), his first notice was the citrus sweet aroma of bergamot. It flooded the dark silhouettes of the lobby before the darkness could touch them.
On the center left couch, a soft lamp illuminated Mitsuru’s tightly seated figure. The dissipating steam of her tea captivated her with the apparent secrets of the universe. For her sake, and everyone else's, he hoped she found them. Minato leaned himself against the railing, and a knock on the drywall rung thud thud thud. Her gaze lost its mist and snapped to astute attention — that was Kirijo. But he resisted the jump in his stomach at how her gaze — her soften — said “oh, it’s you.”
Everything became blurred notes on a sheet. He ignored how she wiped at her eyes while uprighting herself. He ignored her need to feel big. He ignored how her intimacy couldn’t surpass Kirijo — like that was the start and end of her identity.
But that wasn’t his place to question, not yet, at least.
Mitsuru tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Arisato… (and it’s never been as soft as this) out of everyone I could be seeing right now, I’m glad it's you.”
He approached the adjacent couch with tightly crossed arms and tongue pressed hard on the roof of his mouth, “You really are a character, Mitsuru-senpai.”
She quirked her brow. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He placed both hands atop the adjacent couch and leaned forward. Minato’s features contorted into deep thought, rummaging through gentle words, “these secrets that you keep—” this sounds right “they’ll…they’ll get us killed.”
That sounds right, too.
Her face hardened, “Don’t lecture me right now, Arisato,” She sighed and turned to face her tea again. It was a whisper when she spoke, “I am well aware of my shortcomings today.”
Grief was a new phenomenon to Minato. He wasn’t confident in his abilities to detail it yet. The grief for his family felt small, hazy, almost blurred into his peripherals. He could never catch it the way it felt meant to be caught. The grief for Aragaki, however, was profoundly different — it felt like raw slaughter.
But he remained poised, nontheless; He adopted that from Kirijo-senpai herself.
“I could’ve used that information on Ken.”
Mitsuru sighs, “I know.” An almost look of hurt befell her face when she glanced to him, and cascades of lamp lighting yellowed half of her face. White outlined the silhouette of her hair in a protective halo, somewhat evocative of divine varnish. “Did you know?” She spoke steady, but Minato knew the malleability of her cadence; It can’t always bend to her liking.
His neck grew hot, anyways. “Know what?”
She reached for her tea (and ignored how she shook) and brought it close to her chest. “Aragaki was experiencing liver failure when he died, with a multitude of other issues.”
Oh, Minato mused, that’s what she meant.
He averted his gaze, and she huffed, “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
Minato ran his tongue over his front teeth before he spoke. “I didn’t feel it was my place.”
Mitsuru sipped her tea, her poise calculated as she crossed her legs. He knew that quiet pensiveness — that deception of resignation. He saw in action every time she was about to snap towards Junpei or Sanada by pegging their king; Mitsuru Kirijo never lost a debate.
Her voice had hushed down to a whisper: “I’m not the only one with secrets, Arisato.”
Minato furrowed his brow, standing upright. His arms crossed, and the cuffs of his shirt hugged his biceps like a cotton shield. It grew the weight of armor, “That’s not fair, senpai.”
Her head shook in a dry laugh, “It never is, Arisato-kun.”
His legs had grown tired after a certain point, and he found himself sitting in the orange lounge chair. It did little to relieve the pressures on his mind. He continued, “stop playing with me, senpai.”
For a minute, a pang of hurt glistened across her pupils, but they quickly steeled. “I — of everyone in this building — know this isn’t a game, Arisato.”
“Then why are you constantly playing chess with me?” (he meant: Why don’t you trust me enough?)
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You…” he wriggled his hands, “you say we share this role of leader, but I’m kept in the dark. I feel like—“ he threw his hands “— like a foot soldier.”
Mitsuru’s brows dipped alongside her lips, “No, Arisato, you’re not — that was never my intention—“ she released a long breath. “— Aragaki was my friend, Arisato-kun. You know this. None of you are my foot soldiers. All of you, every single one,” the strong cadence in her tone broke with an unsteady tremble. “You’re all my friends, and I’m—I’m so sorry.”
Her tea sat directly in front of her, the steam lessening every minute. She held her torso in a tight embrace with her slender arms, additionally consoled by a reddening lip bite. She sniffled, “If I had the choice, this battle would be fought by me alone. Perhaps then…” Whatever her thought was, the trembling demeanor of her voice abruptly finished it. Minato stared with calm intensity — there was no other way to stare at her vulnerable form, anyway. It was the magnetic fixation that the tide shared with the Earth, encapsulated into his eyes.
He moved himself over to the empty spot beside her, separated solely by their cushion lines. It was muffled sniffs for a long second before he settled on: “I bet you guys had a lot of fun together,” he recalled her early stories of the trio. “And I think Aragaki knew how you felt about him, too. I know he appreciated it.”
She turned to face him, half obscured by shadows bouncing behind her, “He was supposed to graduate, Arisato,” her mouth stayed parted to release a small, strained cry. “He should’ve graduated. It’s like everything I touch I,” a pained breath for a pause. “I taint. I taint it all.”
Minato grimaced, shifting himself closer to her, his hand on her side of the couch cushions. He gulped down his anxieties, “I don’t think thats true, Mitsuru. I don’t think thats true at all,” her face sunk into her palms. Minato’s awkward foot bounce soothed his clacking billiard anxiety, mustering together his courage. He moved his hand to her leg, waiting for her gaze to refocus itself back onto him. Her sharp look to his figure quieted her grievances, and Mitsuru resorted to parted, harried breaths.
She did not move him, though.
The first time he tried to speak, his mouth opened to silence. The second time, he found himself: “I need you to trust me.” Steeled, resolute, gentle — It was a sensitive noise. “I need you to trust more than just Arisato,” her downtrodden gaze accompanied her torso hug. Minato squeezed her leg (and ignored how her free hand ghosted his thumb over and over again) and mustered out his courage. “Two in harmony—”
“Surpass one in perfection,” she finished in a melancholic tone. “I know.” Mitsuru met his direct gaze, a slight flush on the edge of her cheeks. Her thumb rested on his hand, a resolution crossing her features, “I’ve tainted you, too, Arisato.”
Minato’s comforting smile held the remnants of a lip bite. “I can handle whatever you throw at me, Mitsuru.” She stared at him, half incredulous and half pitying. He flipped his hand into hers, her thumb resting on the center of his warm palm, “Just say when.” Mitsuru’s lip trembled, her voice faded away, and she could only afford herself aggressive blinks. He figured it was for any stray tears.
“A-Arisato,” she gripped his hand like it was the ledge stopping her fall into Tartarus. “you are so special. And so complicated,” a shaky breath. The glimmer in her eyes dimmed, though, and she loosened her grip on him. “But I also know that’s not the only complicated thing here.”
He nodded, admiring her vulnerability, sitting in silence. His knee grazed hers, and her hand rested on his own, and the tea slowly pooled away. By the time she’s finished her tea, Minato’s lost the heat at the small of his back from tracing lines up, down, and around her thumb. The silence is broken by Mitsuru’s steady inhale.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “And…and I’m sorry.” Mitsuru gave his hand one tight squeeze, as if to silently say, “not just for Shinjiro. Not just for war.” Then, she picked up her things and left him.
Only the faint light of the lamp saw the way he watched her every step. Only the blanket of darkness saw the way she lingered on him where he could not see.
But that didn’t stop their fingers from humming for eachother.