Work Text:
There’s a gap in the wall between the kitchen and the cafeteria.
It’s meant to be used, Mikoto assumes, for serving food through; perhaps there was a time in MILGRAM’s history where food would have to be cooked by the warden, who would then pass the food through the little hole and place it on the counter outside for the prisoners to collect at dinner.
It makes sense. It surely had a reason for its placement once, no matter how long ago, because otherwise it simply wouldn’t be there. As it stands, however, there’s no functional use for the thing anymore – food miraculously appears in the kitchen, oftentimes riddled with rabbit hair, and the prisoners have to serve it themselves. There’s no point in that little serving hole anymore.
Still, he supposes, maybe it’s better the way it is now: they don’t have to conform to strict timetables, after all. It would be a hassle to have to drag himself to lunch at the same time everyday. That’s not to say it doesn’t come with its own downsides….
“Oi, Mikoto, d’you know how the microwave works?”
… But maybe it would be a little more tolerable if Fuuta wasn’t so loud.
It's fine. He can deal with this. Mikoto rubs a strand of hair between his fingers as Fuuta shuffles, uncomfortably, behind him. “I dunno,” he replies, staring at the wall. “Have you tried turning it on?”
Fuuta scoffs. It doesn’t sound like he finds him particularly funny. “Shut up.”
Mikoto rolls his eyes, a grin crawling up his face, as he picks another clump of rabbit hair out of his noodles. “I’m offering help,” he replies, a teasing tilt to his voice.
Fuuta angrily slams the microwave door – the sound is almost enough to make Mikoto flinch, though he refrains. “I said to shut it,” he snaps back through the hole in the wall Mikoto is pointedly not looking at. “If you're going to be like that, don't bother. You’re not being helpful in the slightest.”
Mikoto hums delightedly. “Whatever you say, Fuuta!”
Fuuta mutters something angry and unintelligible; Mikoto doesn’t bother to grace him with a reply – and, once again, the room lapses into silence, the only sounds being the occasional slam from the kitchen behind him.
Mikoto fishes a particularly large chunk of rabbit hair out of his teriyaki sauce.
He begins to wonder, idly, how these hairs even end up here in the first place. It’s not like there are many rabbits in the prison; there’s only the warden’s jackalope, which obviously cannot cook (being a rabbit) and usually sleeps most of the day, anyway. Unless it makes a frequent stop in the kitchen – which, let's be real, with how lazy it is is very unlikely at best – there's no reason for its hair to be all over the place.
Still, he supposes, it’s not that big of a deal. As long as it's edible, he doesn't particularly care about the mysterious animal hair; and the food tastes good either way. He licks his lips and dives in for a bite –
“Mikoto-san.”
– but is cut off before he is able, startled out of his thoughts. His chopstick clatters against the metal bowl.
He turns just in time to spot Amane slip into the chair across from him. The table rocks a little as she leans against it – and, then, it begins to sway side to side.
Mikoto comes to the slow realisation that she’s swinging her legs. He beams at her. “Hi, Amane-chan,” he greets, resting his chin into his palm. “What’s up? Did you need something?”
Amane nods. “I do,” she says – and then ducks her head, grabbing her backpack.
She rummages around in her bag for a few moments, shedding pens and pencils all over the floor, before, finally, lifts herself up again. She slams a colourful blue workbook onto the table.
“I finished all of my work,” she says, matter-of-factly. “But Kotoko-san is busy.”
Saying this, the girl meets his eyes and slides the textbook towards him. She looks so exaggeratedly serious as she does so – as this is a matter of utmost importance and not elementary-level math – that he almost laughs in her face.
In his defense, it's funny. Mikoto’s lips twitch upwards into a grin; though Amane glowers, a little, at his light-hearted expression, and he quickly attempts to smother it.
“I’ll mark it for you,” he tells her, instead, and the girl's expression softens ever so slightly. “I’m kinda bored, anyway. Did you bring the answer sheet?”
Amane seems to relax at his words. She doesn’t stop swinging her legs, though, as she puffs out her cheeks in thought. "Um," she says, clearly uncertain. "Hold on."
She ducks under the table for a second time, once again rummaging around in her backpack – though there are significantly less spills, this time. She returns to the surface a few seconds later with the answer sheet in her hands and a smugly successful glint in her eyes.
“Of course I do,” she says, as if she hadn’t doubted herself just a moment before. “Who do you take me for?”
Mikoto huffs, taking the sheet out of her offering hands and placing it flat on the table in front of him. “Whatever you say," he grins – before changing the topic without a second thought. “Y'know, I think you’ve gained a little weight.”
Amane’s eyes widen. Fuuta pipes up from the kitchen, behind him, and the girl seems to nearly go through shock at the sheer sight of him.
“You can’t say shit like that,” he calls, and Amane only just manages to hide her flinch over such vulgar language. “Girls are sensitive about that kind of thing!”
Amane is quick to shake her head. “Not sensitive,” she insists. “But it’s important to stay healthy!”
Fuuta snorts from behind the counter. “You could stand to have more meat on your bones,” he mutters, under his breath, before once again falling silent.
Amane wrinkles her nose. Mikoto nods his agreements nonetheless.
“He’s right, you know,” he tells her, idly flipping through her workbook. “It can be unhealthy to be too skinny.”
Amane squints her eyes at him in response. She looks over his shoulder instead of responding, peering into the kitchen, and then, pointing, she asks – “Since when has Fuuta-san been back there?”
Mikoto shrugs. “A while, I think,” he says, before snickering. "He's taking his time."
“Shut it!” Fuuta shouts back. “The microwave isn’t working!”
There’s a great banging sound, like he’s repeatedly hitting the microwave with his fists. Amane tilts her head. She tugs at a page of her textbook.
“Have you tried unplugging it and then plugging it back in?”
Fuuta kicks the wall – and then hisses, sharply, at the pain. Mikoto barely holds back a snort. Amane winces, biting her nail.
“Of course I’ve done that!” He shouts, voice a little too loud for such a small space. “The stupid thing isn’t turning on!”
Amane blinks at Mikoto. He blinks dumbly back at her, before shrugging, loosely, and turning around in his chair. “What do you mean, it’s not turning on?”
Fuuta’s head pokes out from below the wall like an overly aggressive meerkat. “I mean it’s not turning on, dipshit!”
Mikoto rolls his eyes. “If it’s plugged in, it should be turned on.”
There’s a beat of silence that stretches on for far longer than should be necessary. Amane, eventually, nudges the answer sheet closer towards him. She looks up at him expectantly.
Just as Mikoto finally gives in, brushing off Fuura's worried and picking up the pen to mark her work, there’s a great crashing sound. Fuuta yelps in shock – and then he curses, angrily, under his breath.
Mikoto stands from his chair. Amane sags – and, when he meets her gaze, eyes blown wide with betrayal, he can only find it in himself to shrug an apology.
“Sorry, Amane-chan,” he says, sounding a little dismissive. “I’ll do it in a minute.”
He can still feel her eyes on him as he makes his way over to the kitchen counter; he leans on it, perhaps a little too much, and tries his hardest to ignore her upset mumbling behind him.
Fuuta rises from the floor. He rubs at his head, a little, and makes eye contact with him; Mikoto barely smothers a grin as he yelps and leaps in the air about five feet. “Shit! Don’t scare me like that!”
“I didn’t mean to scare you, Fuuta.”
“Fuckin’ did,” he mutters, sparing a glance at Amane at the table over his shoulder before finally fully turning to face him. He points, begrudgingly, at the microwave.
“Take a look, man. It’s fucked.”
Mikoto hears Amane murmur something about ‘vulgarity’ just as he slams his hand onto the countertop – and he hops the wall without a second thought, leaping his way into the kitchen. He lands with a thud on his two feet.
Fuuta yelps. Amane gasps. Mikoto pauses.
“... What?”
Fuuta splutters. “What are you doing?!” He cries. “ Just use the door! Are you crazy? What if you smashed something?!”
Mikoto shrugs his shoulders and rubs at the back of his neck. He grins. “I didn’t, though.”
Fuuta looks just about ready to bite his tongue off; or at least wrangle his neck. He’s practically twitching with rage. “That’s not the point!”
Mikoto brushes him off, pointedly ignoring him to, instead, make his way over to the microwave. He presses a button.
Nothing happens. Fuuta audibly groans. “Don’t be an idiot,” he says. “I told you it wasn’t working, you ass.”
As if to prove a point, Mikoto ignores him, flipping the microwave upside-down. Fuuta shoves his shoulder. He doesn’t budge, following the wires leading out of the microwave with his eyes despite the other's pushback.
“Give me a minute,” he chides, playfully, as if he thinks that very moment is an appropriate time to tease. “I’m helping you, Fuuta.”
Fuuta scoffs. “Can’t you do it in a way that’s a little less annoying?”
Mikoto places his hand on his chin, as if in thought, and then – “You know what? I don’t think I can.”
Fuuta splutters indignantly in response as he grabs onto a black cable and follows it upwards to the source on the wall. He fumes with rage just behind him. The other prisoner is silent, at least verbally, though his anger is evident in the way he slams his foot into the kitchen tiles over and over again like an angry rabbit; in the way Mikoto can hear him gnash his teeth together if he really strains his ears.
Mikoto finds his way to the plug socket – and, with that, Fuuta speaks up.
“You’re such a dick,” he spits out. “You’re an asshole to me, ‘cause you know you can get away with it. Ain’t that right?
His almost smug expression tells Mikoto that he thinks he’s figured out something game changing. He just flashes him a grin.
“So what?”
Fuuta’s face flushes such a dark red it looks like steam is about to come out of his ears. He grates his teeth together like his jaw is a chainsaw. Amane, below them both, peers over the counter and slides her homework across it, willfully ignorant of the redhead's anger.
“Mikoto-san,” she pleads. “My work.”
He brushes her off, making eye contact with Fuuta before turning back to the cables. “Give me a minute, Amane-chan. I’ll be right with you.”
Fuuta scoffs. “Tell him to hurry up,” he mutters, lowly, presumably talking to Amane by the window. “He’ll take his sweet time just to rub it in.”
There are shuffling sounds behind him; and, as if to prove a point, Mikoto thumps his fist into the plug socket on the wall. Fuuta practically squeals.
“Dude! A little warning?!”
“Sorry, Fuuta,” Mikoto almost coos, glancing at him over his shoulder. “Did I scare you?”
Amane has seemingly crawled onto the countertop when he wasn’t looking – Fuuta holds one arm out, as if to keep her steady, as if he had helped her get up there in the first place, though he crosses it over his chest again upon making eye contact. His expression sours. “Don’t piss me off!”
Mikoto grins, tilts his head, and then slams his arm down onto the microwave. Fuuta jolts in surprise, and Amane nearly topples off the counter and back onto the floor – but, before Fuuta gets the chance to yell again, the microwave sparks to life.
Fuuta stares in what might best be described as wonder as the dreaded machine in front of him beeps. Mikoto gestures, widely: “voila!”
Fuuta struggles to grasp for his words. He takes a step towards the microwave; and Mikoto, dutifully, takes a step back. “Wh – how did you–?!”
“A magician never reveals his secrets,” Mikoto replies, lips twitching upwards. “I’ve got magic fingers, Fuuta-kun.”
“Asshole,” the other replies, muttering to himself with barely even a hint of gratitude. “And this stupid fuckin’ machine…”
Fuuta continues to grumble, though his voice goes quiet enough that it’s hard to hear. Mikoto still rolls his eyes – and, then, he makes eye contact with Amane. She silently waves him over.
“Don’t be so rude,” he chides, hopping to sit up onto the counter beside Amane. She tugs on his sleeve, nudging her textbook towards him. He keeps talking. “I helped you. A ‘thank you’ would be nice!”
Fuuta scoffs, glowering at him with all of his might. “Shut up,” he snaps. “I hope you choke to death on this shitty prison food.”
“You wound me,” Mikoto teases, dramatically covering his heart with his hand. “But I guess that wouldn’t be so bad, as long as I wouldn’t have to talk to you again!”
Amane sinks further into her seat. “Can someone please mark my homework?”
There’s a beat of silence – until, finally, Fuuta rolls his eyes, taking one of the last few bowls of noodles laid out on the tabletop. Mikoto finally accepts the textbook offered out to him.
Amane visibly sags in relief. “That page,” she says, pointing, very obviously relieved. “And the next three, too.”
Mikoto whistles, lowly, slightly impressed and way more overwhelmed. “I’ve really got my work cut out for me, right?”
Amane glares up at him from the corner of her eye. “Would have less if you started when I asked you to,” she mutters, and Mikoto huffs a laugh.
He begins to work his way down the page, though gets distracted at the sound of metal against glass. He looks up to find Fuuta shoving his bowl into the microwave. It lands inside the machine with a clink.
Mikoto barely even spares him a glance as he slams the door onto his bowl; but then he double takes. Amane peers over his shoulder. “Fuuta,” he says, carefully, as the man starts pressing buttons. “You can’t put metal in the–”
He’s cut off when the microwave explodes.
Fuuta screams, suddenly not sounding so tough, and leaps back about five feet. His back hits the wall, but his reaction clearly wasn’t fast enough; the edges of his hair are now fried, burned to a crisp, and he's awfully red in the face. Amane, too, startles, yelping and nearly toppling off the counter a second time, though Mikoto holds out his arm and stops her fall. He shuffles them both backwards away from the fire now present in the room, melting the tiles off the wall.
There’s a tense moment of silence. The far end of the kitchen is in flames, and it's suddenly very hard to breathe. Nobody dares move – though Amane’s grip on Mikoto’s arm tightens and tightens until it’s nearly painful.
He nudges her, gently, with the back of his arm. “Are you okay?”
She nods, but she doesn’t let go. Her nails dig in through his uniform; her arms shake, slightly, though she’s clearly trying to be brave. Her brows remain furrowed.
Fuuta clears his throat. Mikoto makes eye contact. “Uh,” he says, somewhat dumbfounded, and then – “That was your fault.”
It’s Mikoto’s turn to splutter. “What? No, it wasn’t?!”
Fuuta’s mouth twitches upwards into something like a smile. He turns to Amane, sat beside him, and expectantly raises his eyebrows. Mikoto doesn't like this one bit. A pit settles in his stomach.
"You saw the way the microwave exploded when he put the metal bowl into it, right?”
Amane's a good girl. Too good, really – but nonetheless she's certainly not one to lie. Mikoto laughs at Fuuta's feeble attempt of diverting the blame, placing his hand on the girl’s shoulder as he does so. “Come on, Fuuta! Amane-chan wouldn’t—“
And, yet, at the sight of Amane’s contemplative expression, he falls silent. Amane-chan would.
“What’s in it for me?” She asks, beginning to swing her legs back and forth again like there isn’t a fire crawling up the walls a yard away from her. Mikoto’s heart shatters into a trillion pieces. He's going to be known as a fire hazard forever.
“Don’t encourage him,” he tries, nudging her with his elbow in one last weak attempt to get back on track.
He is ignored. Fuuta places his hands on his hips. “I’ll keep the doctor away from you,” he offers, and Amane immediately perks up. Mikoto swears he can see her ears twitch. “For a week.”
Amane gasps, delighted, and Mikoto accepts his defeat by burying his face in his hands. “A week?!"
The girl then turns to him and tuts. "Wow, Mikoto-san, I can’t believe you set the kitchen on fire.”
Fuuta barks a laugh. Mikoto can only sigh, sagging, as Amane slides off the countertop. “Really? You're doing this?
”Uh-huh.”
Fuuta nods. He looks far too smug for the situation. "I can't believe you'd do that, Mikoto."
He feels himself droop. “Okay. My bad, guys.”
Fuuta snorts, watching the youngest prisoner presumably step away from the kitchen and move back into the cafeteria. “We all make mistakes,” he says, offhandedly, and Mikoto can’t quite hold back a chuckle. He opens his mouth to reply – something witty and biting, he’s sure – but he’s cut off by the fire alarm suddenly sputtering to life, the sprinklers following immediately after.
His hair quickly becomes drenched. Fuuta curses, loudly, and props the kitchen door open with his foot before gesturing over to him. “Get lost!”
Mikoto doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s out the door before Fuuta is, bolting straight to the safety of his cell – and, later, when asked about the soot and the smoke and the fire alarm in the kitchen, everyone points their fingers at Mikoto. He can only shrug and accept it.
It’s whatever, he thinks, calmly. I’ll get my own back, eventually.