Work Text:
Exhaustion feels like it’s been embedded into every part of Maki’s body. Tucked into every crevice of her skeleton, entwined with every fiber of her muscles. Rooted under her fingernails, soaked into the clothes she wears, weighing down the bag she carries to and from work.
Her feet drag across the pavement as she turns off the car and walks into the apartment building she resides in. It’s not the nicest in town. Maki’s learned to stray away from things that look nice—things that look too nice, because there’s always a caveat that isn’t shown to the world. It certainly isn’t the worst part of town, either. The people are nice. They keep to themselves. Just like Maki, who only wants to lay low after all of these years.
Another thing—most of the people in this building are older. People who don’t keep up with media much. People who mind their own business, and when a newscaster sticks a microphone and a camera in their face, they say I don’t know anything, I don’t know what Danganronpa is, I don’t know who Harukawa Maki is.
And that makes this a good building.
She stalks past the man who sits at the front desk, who seems perpetually swamped with paperwork of some kind. Maki has stolen a few glances at the piles when she first moved in a year ago, looking for anything shady she should know about it. One thing that’s stuck with her is her stealth. Nobody even noticed how many bills she managed to look through before she decided she’s seen enough.
This is a normal, good building.
Maki heads straight for the elevator, adjusting her bag in her arms. Already, she’s digging through the pockets of her jacket, one hand resting on her keys. She flicks through the keys on the ring until her thumb presses against one that she’s engraved specially for herself—so she can find it without having to look at it. It keeps her moving quickly. No time wasted, no time vulnerable. She’s played with the idea of a carabiner once or twice, but wearing it on her person where someone can grab and yank off her belt if she’s not careful has permanently dissuaded her. It’s a nice thought. But it’s not for her.
Even though this is a nice building, she’s never allowed herself to waver, never allowed her guard to fall. If anyone were tailing after her, she wants to be able to enter her apartment swiftly, or get in her car and speed off as fast as possible. Her car key is also engraved with a different shape. (Her apartment key has a heart engraved into it, per Kaede’s cheesy suggestion—“home is where the heart is!”—and her car key has a simple circle.)
She presses the button for the third floor, and she mashes the one that closes the doors. She doesn’t like riding elevators with people. Not with people she doesn’t know. (She’ll only ride the elevator with a few of the others from the show, but only a select few. Not Ouma. Not Shirogane. Not Yonaga. Always Shuichi. Always Himiko (for an obvious reason). Everyone else, it depends on the day.)
In her mind, she counts the seconds between the doors closing and the ding that signals she’s at her floor. She’s always hyper-aware, so she’s on top of things the very second that something goes wrong.
The elevator dings. Maki squeezes past the doors opening as soon as it’s big enough to let her through. Her keys clink together in her pocket. She shoves her hand into the depths to take them out, thumbing her apartment key as she speeds her way to Room 307. There’s no one in the hallway, thankfully. Even if there was, she wouldn’t talk to them. Nobody really talks to anyone here. Everyone keeps to themselves.
She unlocks the door quietly, despite her hurried movements. Not too quietly—which is a thing, because she’s come to learn that her stealth wounds up spooking even people that she doesn’t need to be scaring—but not so loud to cause a scene or raise any questions.
The door swings open. It’s dark inside, as always.
Maki sighs as she pockets her keys and enters her apartment. Her other hand finds the light switch right by the door, and as she flicks it on, she shuts the door with the back of her shoe.
“Himiko?” she calls out, her voice hoarse. She doesn’t talk much these days, not unless it’s for work. “I’m home.”
There’s no response. Typical.
A few years ago, on her own birthday, Himiko broke down in front of her therapist. I can’t live at home anymore, she said, I can’t keep letting my parents mourn me. Maki was subjected to that same spheal, when Himiko debriefed her after that appointment, still sniffling and all. There was a dull ache in Maki’s heart as she heard those words—because she knew exactly what that was like.
(Maki herself, apparently, was never close to her mother. Their days before Killing Harmony were filled with arguments about anything and everything. The old Maki seemed to pick fights wherever possible, believing she was always destined for something better than what she dubbed a “shithole”—quoted directly from a poorly-maintained journal. The Maki that lived there after Danganronpa wasn’t much better. Instead of arguing all the time, she kept to herself. She hated (and still hates) talking about the reality show. She hated (and still hates) talking about the fake memories embedded in her skull. She hated (and still hates) everything about Danganronpa.)
Maybe it was a good thing that the fake Maki never had parents. It doesn’t seem like she’s cut out for them in any world.
Her mother must have been thrilled when she told her she was moving out. After Himiko turned eighteen and had her breakdown, Maki figured there was a way to relieve both of their families. (And Himiko, poor girl.) So, she scrounged up some of the money she had—which was a lot, considering her survivor status—and bought an apartment for her and Himiko impulsively.
That apartment was shit. The season was still fresh, and everyone had their eyes on the two survivors that moved in together. Forget Saihara Shuichi, who happens to be damn near unfindable these days, because Yumeno Himiko and Harukawa Maki are a hot spot for celebrity gossip.
(And Himiko almost died in that apartment. Maki was buried working overtime. She didn’t need to, since she had so much money that she didn’t know what to do with it, but she’d been going through an episode of her own and could not stand being home. She pushed herself so hard that she worked three shifts in a row, and came home to a bathroom with a door left slightly ajar, a half-empty bottle of pills, a blade, and blood—)
They moved out after that, found a new apartment across town. Himiko paid for it after she was discharged from the mental hospital, insisted that she do so. I’m sorry I cause so much trouble for you, Maki, she’d whispered, trying not to cry again.
Maki has never thought she was too much trouble. She didn’t know how to say it.
She still doesn’t know how to say it. Words aren’t her strong suit—everything always comes out too blunt, too mean, too vague. Sometimes, she misses the point entirely. Her heart’s in the right place, according to Kaito, but she doesn’t know what to believe much these days.
It took a few more attempts at apartments after that over the course of two years, but eventually, they found this place. It’s good enough so far.
Maki slips her shoes off by the door, shifting her bag from one shoulder to the other as she shrugs off her jacket. She’s still wearing hospital scrubs, because she doesn’t trust the workplace she’s interning at to change there.
She tries again. “Himiko?”
There’s a quiet ebb of dread in her chest that she chooses to ignore. It’s always there. It’s been there since the day she woke up from the simulation. It grew to be twice its size when Maki found Himiko in the bathroom two and a half years ago, and it hasn’t shrunk since. But she ignores it. For her sanity, she has to. There’s being realistic, and there’s obsessing over every potential bad thing that can occur in her life. That’s probably how Shuichi disappeared off the face of the Earth, worrying all the time.
(He’s fine. The only person he regularly keeps in touch with these days is Ouma, who allegedly swiped his phone off him the last time they were both at one of Team Danganronpa’s publicity events and got his phone number off it. Maki practically threatened him last month to get his number—there was a lot of back and forth, but he scribbled Shuichi’s contact information on a post-it note and slammed it so hard into her chest she almost fell over. So, Maki won that.
Shuichi doesn’t text often. Neither does Maki. Last they spoke, he was trying to find his mother and get into contact with her.)
To the media, Saihara Shuichi is a ghost.
So is Maki. So is Himiko. Both of them are still flooded with opportunities from Team Danganronpa, asking they show their faces at one of their events someday. No season has done quite as good as the fifty-third, apparently, because it’s been five long years and they are still begging like dogs.
Maki passes the kitchen and enters the hallway when she calls one more time. “Himiko.” It’s less a question, more of an indirect plea. Tell me you’re there.
From the cracked opening of Himiko’s room, she finally hears a quiet groan. “I’m here.”
She knows that. Himiko is always in her room. Maki approaches her door, gently resting one hand on the knob. “Can I come in?”
A pause. “I guess.”
Maki pushes open Himiko’s door slowly. It creaks in the quiet, and the light in the hallway spills into her dimly lit room. A few months ago, Chabashira came to visit, and she left behind a nightlight that her younger niece had apparently outgrown. They plugged it into the wall beside the nightstand, replacing the lamp that she hates to use.
— You’ll… ruin your eyes if you stay in the dark all day.
— Chabashira’s right, Himiko. You need this.
(Himiko stared at the both of them. No, actually, she didn’t. She doesn’t look anyone in the eyes. She did take the nightlight, her fingers tracing over the crescent moon and its gentle smile.)
— …Thanks.
For once, Himiko isn’t buried under three layers of blankets on her bed. Instead, she’s sitting on the floor, right next to the nightlight and her phone in her hands.
“Hey,” Maki starts, navigating across the messy floor. She steps around small piles of clothes that haven’t been properly laundried and candy wrappers and empty water bottles. Once she’s close enough, she kneels down beside Himiko, setting her bag down at her side. “You’re out of bed.”
Himiko frowns. “You’re doing it again.”
She stiffens. “Doing what?”
“Talking to me like I’m a kid,” says Himiko, looking over at her somewhat. Not at her eyes. It looks more like she’s looking past her, maybe at the wall. “I really don’t need any… gentleness. It’s okay.”
It’s frustrating some days, having this conversation. Himiko hasn’t taken care of herself in weeks. She can’t remember the last time she convinced her to step outside into the sun, even for just a few minutes. Or at least open a window. It’s not like Maki is trying to treat her like a child, but…
“Sorry.” Maki looks away from Himiko. “I’m still in work mode.”
Her current internship is at a local pediatrician’s office, and sometimes, she works hands-on with the children before the doctor walks in. Maki still isn’t the best with kids, but she’s grown to be more patient. Every so often, a teenager will walk in and Maki’s heart will jump—but her hair is short and she’s practically unrecognizable in her scrubs.
(Sometimes, a teenager will pry. You look like one of my favorite characters, they’ll say, a dim sparkle in their eyes. Maki always brushes over it. I have a common face.)
“M-My day was fine, anyway.” Himiko keeps staring at her phone. She seems to be vaguely debating what to say. Then, she says, “They’re reaching out to me again. Some convention in the next town over. Angie finally agreed to come to one, so…”
“So they think they can convince everyone else, too.” Maki's tone is something even she can't name. It's a quiet anger. Hatred. Something like that. “Well, ignore it. You don't have to do it.”
Silence falls over them as Maki reaches for her bag. She unzips it, looking through it until she finds what she's looking for—a small takeout container of sushi. She offers it out to Himiko. “I stopped by that one place on my way home. Did you eat anything today?”
Himiko stares at the food. “I found a candy bar under my pillow that I misplaced last week.” That's definitely not sustainable. She accepts the container. “Thanks, Maki.”
Maki fishes out an unopened pair of chopsticks and passes those to Himiko too. As her roommate digs into the food, her eyes wander over the mess that Himiko's been living in. She's been so busy lately, so she hasn't been able to help her stay on top of the uptake. It's unfortunate. She hates to say it, but none of this looks pretty.
“I was thinking of going.”
Her head snaps back to look at Himiko. “What?”
“To the convention.” Her voice is quiet. “Angie's going. And I haven't seen Iruma or Amami in forever.”
Iruma and Amami are the usual guests when it comes to Team Danganronpa's public events. Ouma shows up now and again, as does Kaito, but not many other people do. Very rarely, Shirogane tags along, but she doesn’t speak to the other “players” the same as they do amongst themselves.
(Maki once considered feeling bad. Shirogane was their age too when she was selected to be Mastermind. There's still a deep-seated discomfort in her soul whenever they talk, though, and Maki's never been good at pretending to care about people she doesn't like.)
But Angie is going, for some godforsaken reason. And so is Himiko?
“Are you sure about that?” asks Maki, carefully. She's trying not to sound like she doesn’t trust Himiko's judgment. (Because she does. Kind of.)
Himiko swallows a bite of her food. “I never go out anymore,” she says, stating the obvious. “I was just thinking… I dunno. It'd be nice.”
Maki mulls over her roommate's words. “You'll have to act like your character again.” It's easier said than done.
She clears her throat. “I can do that,” she replies in a more nasally tone, pressing one finger to her chin. “Nyeh.”
To that, Maki can't help the snort that escapes her.
Himiko drops the act. “Eh… What's so funny?”
“Nothing. It's just been a while.” Maki reaches up to the short ponytail that rests on her shoulder, combing her fingers through the ends. “I wouldn't mind driving you. I can wait in the car.”
There's a beat of silence that passes. “You wouldn't do it with me?”
And briefly, Maki considers it. Briefly. “No,” she says simply, then realizes that's too blunt. “I can't. My character is…”
She sucks in a breath and looks away.
“When I did appearances before,” and by before, she means a long time ago—like in the early weeks following the simulation, because she (like many of the participants) didn't think she had a choice, “the fans got really personal. They asked me things about my character that I didn't want to answer.”
She remembers it all too clearly. More details on her backstory, who she wanted to kill, whether or not she was still hoping to bag a kill after the simulation so it'd be real this time. One group of Ouma fans even threw trash at her at the autographs table for daring to bring harm to their favorite. Funny, because they never treated Kaito, his technical killer, like that. (Not that she wanted them to. She was bitter, though.)
“Besides,” she continues, taking a more lighthearted tone. Speaking of Kaito. “I'm a lesbian. I don't want them pressing on a crush on a guy from when I was a teenager. Especially one that wasn't real in the first place.”
Himiko nods. “That… does make sense. Sorry.”
She doesn't hold it against her. Her spiraling depression had been worsening the second she woke up. Not once did Yumeno Himiko make an appearance for publicity events. The world always bombarded Maki and Shuichi with questions, and coming up with in-character reasoning was difficult, since neither of them “canonically” bought Himiko's mage shtick.
(Chabashira usually swept in with the excuse about mana and HP, obsessing over cute little Himiko and throwing in a line about missing her ever so dearly—which every fan always ate up.)
“It's okay, really.” Maki attempts a smile, but it's difficult to not default to the one she gives to the kids at work. “If I could, I would. I doubt I have the ability to play a convincing assassin after all these years, though.”
Himiko hums, stifling a laugh. “Nyeh… Dunno. You're still pretty mean.” She's doing the voice again, but her laughing overtakes her.
And Maki can't help but stare at her, her own expression soft. It's been months since she's last heard her laugh.
She's never had a good experience with these conventions, but it clearly means a lot to Himiko. There's a hope in her eyes that she hasn't seen in who knows how long. It occurs to Maki that, however this experience goes, Himiko needs this. How long has it been since she’s found something to be happy about? Something to look forward to?
“Take that back. Or else I’m leaving you stranded there,” she replies, and the smile on her face doesn’t feel quite as forced at all.
Himiko laughs a little harder. “You wouldn’t.”
And she’s right. She wouldn’t. There’s no one else in the world that Maki currently lets so close to her heart. There’s a lot she would do for Yumeno Himiko. Especially now, seeing her smile and laugh—she doesn’t even know if she’s ever seen her do that during the killing game—that’s something she’s going to keep chasing from now on.
Because things are going to get better. She won’t lose Himiko like she lost Shuichi.
She’s going to make sure of it.