Archive of Our Own

Being in a room with all the other department heads tends to make Juzo feel itchy, and he's rather certain he's not the only one. It's a risk to have everyone in one place, Munakata and Tengan especially; if something happens to the both of them, the line of succestion for the chairman's seat is fuzzy. It means that there's no version of this meeting that isn't tense. It also means that it must be excessively important for Tengan to even consider calling it.

Sat around the long table are Juzo himself as well as the rest of the department heads, Tengan and Munakata at the heads, Kimura to Juzo's right and Chisa to his left. She catches his eye and smiles in that uncanny, almost-familiar way she does these days, so different to how she did when they were in school together. Something in his chest smarts, but he returns the look as best he can.

Munakata does not look at him at all. That hurts, too.

He almost doesn't notice Naegi sitting at Kirigiri's side at first. The guy is especially hard to notice, all told, especially for an HPA alumnus. That's a little strange; Juzo wonders if the other four will make an appearance, too.

"Right," Tengan says, effectively silencing any chatter among the group, "we've come to discuss a new Future Foundation initiative."

"Do we even have the resources for a new initiative?" Kizakura asks. "Last I heard, the thirteenth's struggling to even keep people fed."

"It's not a large one," Kirigiri says. "The meeting was mostly called for the sake of gathering public opinion rather than a question of allocation."

Kizakura shrugs, acquiescing in a manner only Kirigiri ever seems able to draw from him. It doesn't escape Juzo's notice, but it does very much escape his interest. He does not often find it in himself to give a fuck about Kizakura.

"Okay," Naegi pipes up. "We— uh, the Class 78th survivors— we had been thinking it'd be a good idea to preserve some of what everyone else left behind. The thought was to assemble everything into an exhibit of sorts— a museum of hope, so people can see who they really were outside of the killing game. It just doesn't feel right that Enoshima got the final say."

Munakata leans forward in his chair slightly. He's intrigued, but not yet convinced. "It has the potential to serve as a very powerful symbol."

"Yeah, the kind of symbol a Remnant of Despair would love to tear down," Juzo argues. "What's gonna stop them from picking the place clean?"

Kirigiri's cold gaze meets his. "We were hoping the sixth might have some manpower to spare for security."

"So it is a question of allocation." He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. Kirigiri holds his gaze for entirely too long. Neither of them are the type to back down.

"In a certain capacity, yes. Nothing is without cost. However, I think you'll find it negligible."

"I think it's a wonderful idea," Chisa says beside him, clasping her hands together and drawing his attention away from Kirigiri. "It would make a beautiful memorial. They really should be remembered better."

"I'm concerned about the ethics of it," the Great Gozu says, folding his hands on the table. "These people had families, didn't they? I imagine several of them would want to hold on to the keepsakes of their loved ones."

"Of course we'll be asking for their permission," Naegi says. "We wouldn't take anything they're not willing to give."

"Okay, sure, but some of them don't have any family left," Juzo says. "What then?"

Naegi's brow furrows. "…Then there wouldn't be an issue? I'm sorry, I'm just not sure I see where you're coming from."

He's getting stares from a couple different people. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Kimura give him a sidelong glance. Even Kirigiri looks inquisitive, which is never good.

"Just because there's no blood connections left doesn't mean there's no one who'd want to have a say," he explains. Badly, maybe.

Tengan fixes him with a look. "I'm certain there are a lot of people who would like to lay claim to the worldly posessions of the late Class 78th. We can't be expected to go around asking everyone they ever spoke to for their blessing. I think keeping it to family is just fine."

"I don't think it matters either way," Ando says, shrugging. Izayoi, as always, nods silently in agreement at her side. "We'd just be taking a trinket or two, so what's the harm? It's not like we'd be robbing them blind."

"Maybe seeing their loved ones stripped of their personhood and elevated to idol status is the harm," Gekkogahara's avatar argues. "For a second time, may I remind you. Was that not a key component in Enoshima's plan to spread despair?"

"The situations are hardly comparable," Munakata shoots back. "If anything, this would serve to humanize them."

"Isn't it kind of ghoulish, though?" Kimura mumbles beside him. "I mean, we haven't even released the bodies back to the families yet."

"Yeah, they haven't even gotten a fuckin' funeral yet, and we're supposed to put their whole lives on display?" Juzo leans forward in his chair, palms on the table, moments from standing in indignity. "Are you people hearing yourselves?"

Only then does Munakata meet his eye. "I think you're blowing things greatly out of proportion, Sakakura. Naegi does not propose we parade them around in the streets for the amusement of the population. This would be a respectful, reverent environment, constructed for the purpouses of furthering hope. Surely you see that."

That should be more than enough for him to back down. On any other day, regarding any other topic, it probably would be.

It's disconcerting that it isn't.

"I'd be curious to know why you have such a vested interest in this, Sakakura." Kirigiri's icy voice cuts through the fog. "As far as I'm aware, you'd never so much as met any of Class 78th until we came to be under the Future Foundation's employ."

He rips his gaze from Munakata to meet Kirigiri's. She looks as if she's seeing through him. It sends a shiver down his spine.

"…You said you wanted public opinion," he says eventually. "There's mine."

"Hm." She's clearly not satisfied with the answer, but he'd not been speaking to satisfy her, anyway, so whatever. Hopefully she doesn't go digging further.

…She probably will, though, knowing those damn Kirigiris. Once they sniff out a lead, there's not a thing anyone can do to get them to leave it the hell alone.

"If no one else has any immediate concerns, perhaps we should break here," Tengan says, standing. "Think on it, and we'll reconvene in a week. I think a majority vote will be fine."

People begin to stand and file out, but some linger. Kirigiri stops staring at him and turns to speak with Naegi. Chisa looks at Juzo and cocks her head.

"What was all that about?" she asks, mouth quirking up just slightly at the corner. "I really didn't think you'd care about this sort of thing."

"…I dunno," he lies easily. "Doesn't it seem kind of bizzare to you?"

"I mean, not really? It's commemorative. That's pretty normal."

"Right," he sighs, standing. "I'll think on it, I guess. See you later."

"O-oh, alright then. Bye, Juzo!" she chirps, letting him go without a fight.

He doesn't so much as glance at Munakata on his way out for fear of meeting his eye. Doesn't pay any mind to anyone else, either, but that's not unusual.

"I still struggle to understand where your objection lies."

In a strange perversion of how these things usually go, Munakata has sought Juzo out. He sits with his long legs crossed in the rarely used chair that sits before Juzo's desk. In entering the space, his suffocating tendency to conquer rears its head; the office that had been Juzo's a few minutes ago is an arena Munakata commands now.

It leaves Juzo feeling very out of place.

"Feels weird," he grumbles. "Don't know if the Future Foundation should be the final authority on how they're remembered. It's not like we knew them."

"It would be a memorial to their heroism. That's hardly uncommon."

"Do you really think they're heroes?"

Munakata pauses, brows shooting up. He'd not been expecting that. Neither had Juzo, to be fair.

"Do you not?"

"…I dunno."

"Sakakura, you know very well that I value your opinion."

He huffs. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he is still aware of that fact.

"I think they were teenagers," he says with a sigh. "And they had to be the nation's hope or whatever instead of being kids. I mean, you remember."

Munakata bristles. "I never resented my station."

"Yeah, resented is a strong word. But you can't pretend Hope's Peak was doing right by any of us."

"We recieved a world-class education. We were the future."

"We were sixteen. You never thought it was a little much?"

"No," he says sharply, "I didn't."

Munakata is on the defensive. Juzo knows (or perhaps knew) him well enough to recognize that it's likely because he doesn't want to agree.

"Fine. Okay." He frowns. "If you can look me in the eye and tell me honestly that you'd be fine having no say at all in what happens if me or Yukizome dropped dead tomorrow, I'll defer my vote to you."

Munakata stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor, and places his hands on the smooth surface of the desk. "That is hardly the same thing, Sakakura."

"Yeah?" Juzo stays in his chair. "We're alumni, too, and you're not family in any way the Future Foundation would recognize. If they decided to stuff us and put us in one of those shitty little museum displays, you wouldn't get to say a damn thing about it."

"No one is proposing—" He shakes his head sharply, hands tightening on the edge of the desk. He's silent for a very long time. Juzo can hear him doing breathing exercises, and… feels a little bad, admittedly.

"…You're making this out to be some kind of grotesquerie," he grits out eventually, "and it isn't. It is a modest collection of mementos accompanied by an informational plaque and stills from the game at most."

"It's spectacle. You know it is. If it weren't, it'd hardly be a symbol of hope at all." He crosses his arms. "You're gonna let the rest of the world mourn the students before their loved ones get to?"

"You know why we cannot risk releasing the bodies."

"Yeah, I do." What the population had done to Enoshima's corpse still sends a shiver down his spine. "The families know it, too. Doesn't mean it doesn't fucking hurt."

Munakata straightens, his hands sliding slowly off the desk to fall in loose fists to his side. He's quiet for a while, steely gaze meeting Juzo's for so long that he has to supress the urge to fidget.

"Fine," he says, turning. "I suppose neither of us are going to be swayed."

"Guess not."

"Very well." And then he's gone, closing the door behind him a little too heavily, leaving the office deafeningly quiet in his absence. Juzo leans back in his chair as far as it will allow and stares at the dingy steel ceiling, conciously slowing his breathing.

"Okay," he says to the air, "guess we're fuckin' fighting over this, then."

It is not a surprise when Yukimaru flags down Juzo in the hallway, especially considering the thick file folder tucked under his arm. He has to stop abruptly from a half-run to hand it over.

"Glad I ran into you. Here," Yukimaru says, out of breath, "turns out the activity in the Metro Museum in Edogawa was a civilian effort. Nothing to do with the remnants— not directly, at least."

"Are you sure?" Juzo asks, flipping through the file folder. The photos Yukimaru got always tended to be a little blurry, but they captured what they needed to— in this case, a train car with a jet engine sloppily strapped to the back, both smashed to pieces against the cement wall of the building. He taps a fingernail against another one of the images, tilting the file down slightly so Yukimaru can see.

"That symbol doesn't remind you of Souda?" Spray painted on the wall in bright pink is a lightning bolt enclosed within a hexagon. Yukimaru shrugs.

"I mean, yeah, sure, but I talked to the ones that were still camped out there. They were fuckin' nuts, don't get me wrong, but he didn't ask them to do it or anything. Just fanatics, same as the rest."

"Where are they now?"

"Still there, I assume." He looks from the photo to Juzo and huffs, crossing his arms. "Don't give me that look. You know good and goddamn well holding space is limited, and crashing a train into a wall in an empty museum isn't grounds for execution without trial. Weren't even any casualties besides the driver."

"So we're just going to let them go until they do something worse?"

"Yeah, I guess, if you really wanna look at it that way." He shrugs. "Or they keep it to petty mischief and stay in their museum, and we can deal with the bigger fish."

"Dealing with the bigger fish is my job," Juzo says. "That's why you're on guppy crushing duty."

"And these guppies weren't worth the time or the resources it'd take to put 'em down. Double check the files if you want. If I'm wrong, I'll take full responsibility."

"If people die because of your decision, taking responsibility isn't going to fix it."

"You're jumping to a lot of conclusions here, Sakakura," he sighs. "There's a difference between preparing for the worst and making shit up to worry about."

If any of the other subordinates under his employ spoke to Juzo like this, he'd be handing down some incredibly serious consequences. There's a chance he'd have them transferred within the week if they pissed him off bad enough. With Yukimaru, though, he just sighs and shakes his head.

"Whatever. I'll discuss your report with you once I have time to look over it."

"Lookin' forward to it," he says with a crooked grin. "Hey, we need a head count for this Friday."

"Can't make it." He stares down at the file in his hands. "Big meeting that evening."

He does enjoy having dinner with Yukimaru and his friends. He'll usually rework his schedule to accomodate for it, in fact, which he very well could do here. What he cannot do is sit in a room full of people whose memories of the people they loved might be taxidermied for the sake of hope within the month, several of whom will have no say at all in the matter.

Yukimaru among them.

He's a pretty hard guy to read, and Juzo expects he'd miss a lot of his little tells if his own talent didn't so prominently feature getting into other people's heads, but Yukimaru deflates just barely enough for it to register as disappointment.

"Right." His gaze shifts away from Juzo, allowing him a second to breathe. "Good luck. Break a leg or whatever."

He hesitates. It would be ridiculous to tell him now. It might just cause unnecessary worry; with any luck, the vote will strike the whole thing down, anyway, and there won't be a problem at all.

Yeah. It's fine to keep it to himself for now. He's not being a coward, and if the vote does end up going in favor of building the museum, Juzo will make sure Yukimaru hears it from him the second he's able.

"Thanks." He shifts awkwardly. "You got somewhere to be?"

"Sure do." He waves. "See you later, boss."

With that, he's gone as quickly as he came. Juzo can hear his echoing footsteps for entirely too long. The hallways have always been too cavernous and empty, and sound carries entirely too well; maybe that should be the next Future Foundation initiative.

Chisa is always the first to enter the meeting room, usually followed shortly by Tengan and The Great Gozu. When Juzo arrives, they're almost always already making polite small talk while Chisa dusts aimlessly. She pauses her conversation to smile at Juzo as he takes his seat, and he gives a small nod in return.

Bandai and Kimura will generally enter next, the latter of which recieves another polite nod from Juzo. Izayoi and Ando are usually a little harder to predict with any accuracy, but today they float in surprisingly early, chattering amongst themselves (well, Ando is chattering. Izayoi is mostly nodding and eagerly accepting whatever baked good Ando presses to his lips). Mitarai files in shortly after, followed by Naegi and Kirigiri, whose gaze Juzo avoids like the plague. Gekkogahara, like clockwork, arrives exactly five minutes before the appointed start time, and Kizakura waltzes in mere moments before the meeting is set to begin.

Munakata, as always, is the last to enter, doors swinging open only once the lights have already dimmed. It is a play to demand attention and establish importance, and because they're fighting, Juzo lends him neither. He doesn't so much as look over as Munakata takes his seat at one end of the long meeting table.

Tengan clears his throat. "Thank you. I assume this meeting needs no preamble, so let's begin."

"I'm of the opinion that the vote should be held anonymously." Gekkogakara raises one hand briefly, presubambly identifying herself (as if the robotic voice could be coming from anyone else) before quickly returning to typing. "Given the contentious nature of our last meeting."

"I suppose there's no harm in that," Tengan asks. "Any objections to an anonymous vote?"

"I think we should be able to stand behind our positions, no matter how contentious," Kizakura offers. He's leaning forward, elbow on the table and chin in his hand.

"Noted. Any objections for any reason besides the sake of contrarianism?"

Kizakura shrugs, but doesn't argue. Juzo badly hides a scoff.

"Is this funny to you, Kizakura?" he glowers across the table. The bastard just shrugs again.

"Someone's gotta play devil's advocate."

"Gentlemen," Tengan says sharply, "please."

Kizakura leans back in his chair, nonplussed. Juzo grumbles, but doesn't protest further.

"Excellent," Gekkogahara says, handing off a stack of papers to the Great Gozu, who obediently takes them and stands. "I've already printed off the ballots."

Presumptuous, sure, but she does usually seem to be right about these sorts of things. The one that lands in front of Juzo is appropriately plain: white cardstock with the Future Foundation letterhead and three options below it in plain script, each accompanied by an empty check box:

Yes, I am in favor of using Future Foundation resources to maintain a Memorial Museum of Hope (working title subject to change), individual exhibits pending the approval of the victims' families

No, I am against using Future Foundation resources to maintain a Memorial Museum of Hope (working title subject to change), individual exhibits pending the approval of the victims' families

Other/write in

The third option has allocated some space for commentary, though that could have also been a natural consequence of cutting out a large amount of redundant text.

"Before we conduct the vote," Tengan says as Juzo is already uncapping his pen, "I'd like to open the floor for any questions or concerns that have arisen since we met last."

I have one: you people are fucking monsters balances precariously on the tip of Juzo's tongue, but Kirigiri is watching him closely and he's not about to give her anything more than he needs to. He's said his piece, anyway, and if no one's listening, he can't force them to. That's always been Munakata's wheelhouse, anyway, and that probably means Juzo's battle has been lost from the beginning if he's really choosing to stand against him.

It's strange. His loyalty has always outweighed his individual principles when it comes down to it, especially where Munakata is concerned, and it feels strange to have his priorities flipped for the first time since he'd met the man.

Or, he supposes, it isn't such a strict binary. Fear outweighs them both, but that's not at play here. Not in the same way it historically has been, at least, but…

Maybe in some small capacity, he is afraid, though it's more abstract and nearly impossible to pin down at the moment.

There's been crosstalk flying over his head while he wasn't paying attention. He blinks, tuning back in as Mitarai says something about the Remants of Despair. The concern is waved away, or perhaps mocked, by Ando.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Munakata pretending not to repeatedly glance at him, but the corner of his eye is all the attention he's getting.

"Right," Tengan says, knocking on the table sharply. "If that's all, we'll conduct the vote."

Juzo bites the inside of his cheek. He'd had a pretty good idea of where everyone stood a week ago, but now he's fucking clueless. Maybe he should have argued his case some more, even if the point was moot. The wasted effort might have still been worth it, but—

Kirigiri's eyes are trained on the paper as she ticks one of the boxes. It's impossible to see from here, but she's obviously voting the affirmative to her own damn initiative.

There's the fear, or at least a component of it. If she digs a little too deep, she could have him flayed and exposed for the world to see, same as Enoshima had threatened to. Yukimaru might not forgive him for throwing in the towel to save his own skin if he were to found out, but neither would Munakata, so he supposes he's got experience there, at least.

He ticks no with more force than the action calls for and folds the ballot in half. He briefly considers writing something incendiary in the margins, but thinks better of it.

Gozu collects the little slips of paper and delivers them to Tengan. He's always found the wrestler has always been exceptionally easy to read even with the mask, but that may be credited to the fact that they speak a very similar body language, though the Great Gozu's is accented by a degree of theatrics that would get you laughed out of any boxing ring in the world. He wonders if Gozu can similarly read him and really, really hopes not.

In this moment, though, he seems just as nervous as Juzo feels, and there's some sick reassurance in that. Maybe the whole Foundation hasn't lost their damn minds.

Tengan counts the ballots agonizingly slowly, sorting them into neat piles. Juzo might be the only person who didn't write any commentary with how long he spends going over the cards.

When he's done, the stacks are nearly equal. He folds his hands and smiles pleasantly.

"The ayes have it by one," he says. "I'm certain Kirigiri and Munakata will be in communication. You're all dismissed."

Juzo's heart sinks into the floor. All of the attendees avoid his gaze, either by accident or with obvious intentionality.

All but Munakata, whose gaze is cold steel and trained only on him. Juzo's muscles tense so dramatically as he meets it that he can nearly hear them tightening, even over his thundering heartbeat. Whatever that's supposed to mean, he decides immediately that he's not going to entertain it, standing so quickly that his chair clatters loudly to the ground and storming out without another word.

Once he's far enough from the meeting room to breathe, he runs his hands over his face and groans.

…He's going to have to break the news to Yukimaru before someone else does. If he finds out on his own, their friendship and the closest thing Juzo's ever had to community with other people like him are gone in an instant.

And maybe it'll hurt less coming from him. Hopefully. If nothing else, Juzo's tough enough to suffer the brunt of his inevitable anger.

He means to. He really does mean to get to Yukimaru about this, but the day after the meeting is concluded, the Kuzuryu clan and a few of their affiliates establishes a firing squad in the Tokyo Dome, which runs for several days and claims dozens if not hundreds of lives, until they run out of bullets and the swordswoman steps in, and that takes a lot of his focus. A lot of Yukimaru's, too, presumably, seeing as he was on one of the squads deployed to intervene.

(He'd agonized over that decision for entirely too long, especially considering he'd established a rotation to avoid having to decide anything at all, and their turn was up. If he'd flubbed the orders, said he forgot which squad was on the chopping block and made a split-second judgement call, no one would call him on it— other than, of course, Yukimaru himself, who repeatedly and firmly insists he will be subject to neither favoritism nor patronization.)

All of that is to say that he'd truly thought he'd have more time.

He's just finished handing off orders to one of the women under his command, very briefly explaining the situation before handing over a loose pile of papers that he'd not even had time to staple amidst all the commotion, when he hears someone shouting from down the hallway.

He grimaces, handing over the stack. "This should have everything you need. Reach out to your supervisor if you need anything."

"Understood, sir," she says with a curt nod. Unflappability to that degree makes her a good fit for the Sixth, and he's glad to have her, but can't linger on that overmuch. As soon as the papers are out of his hand, he turns on his heel and books it toward the source of the noise.

Yukimaru is cursing at a man Juzo recognizes as a member of Munakata's staff, reaching for a red scarf that the man holds just out of reach. He's covered in blood (most of which hopefully isn't his, but if the bruise blooming over half his chin is any indication, it might be) and grime, still in his riding gear. Odds are he'd stepped back into the building mere minutes ago, if that.

"You fucking asshole, that isn't yours to take," Yukimaru shouts, reaching for it again, but the man has a lot of reach on him and holds it above his head.

"This is for an initiative put forth by your superiors," the man says firmly, voice raising, "and your interference will put you in contempt of the Future Foundation."

"I'll show you where you can shove your fucking contempt, shitstain." Yukimaru's hand curls into a fist and draws back, and Juzo rushes to put his body between the two of them.

"Hey," he shouts, "both of you knock it the hell off."

"Sir, he—"

"That's Ogami's. Tell him he can't just fucking take it."

"Both of you shut up." He grabs Yukimaru by the arm, still drawn back and ready to strike. "You go to my office. Now."

Yukimaru's eyes go wide with disbelief, and he sputters. "You're really gonna let him—"

"Office," he repeats firmly. Yukimaru gives him a scathing look and snatches his arm away roughly before stomping in the direction of Juzo's office. He watches him go, then huffs, turning back to the man, who is straightening the glasses that had been knocked askew in the conflict.

"Tell Munakata I have it under control," he sighs, running a hand over his face. "And don't carry that around in the open. Get a fucking box or something."

"…Understood, sir," the man says, holding the scarf to his chest and concealing it as best he can with his hands. Juzo has half a mind to try and snatch it away, too, but just curls his hands into fists at his side, fingernails digging into his palms.

"You're dismissed." No sooner have the words left his mouth than the man is scuttling down the hallway as quickly as his legs can carry him. Juzo sighs and closes his eyes, taking a few long, deep breaths before heading towards his office.

When he opens the door, Yukimaru is pacing with his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the ground. He stops short and looks up, glaring daggers at Juzo.

"So what fucking initiative was he talking about?" Yukimaru demands. "Future Foundation-sanctioned grave robbing?"

Juzo makes triple sure the door is closed, then locks it for good measure. Yukimaru's eyes are trained on his hands, and the scathing look turns slightly quizzical.

"…You're not far off," he sighs. He doesn't want to continue to block the door with his body, but to sit in his chair puts too much emphasis on the boss-subordinate aspect of their relationship, so he settles for leaning against the front of his desk. "They're making a memorial museum for the 78th class. Said they'd ask the families for permission to display whatever they found, and if they didn't, they'd respect it. If that's any consolation."

Yukimaru's hands fall back to his side. "Bullshit. There's no way Kenshiro would let let 'em take her scarf."

His hands tighten on the edge of the desk. "…Ichirou's not family."

There's a long, tense silence that follows. Yukimaru's expression falls, and Juzo can't look at him, staring instead at his own feet.

"…You told 'em they can't have Mondo, right?"

His voice is smaller than Juzo's ever heard it. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing deep, but Yukimaru's hands are fisted in the front of his shirt seconds later, forcing him to look him square in the face.

"You told 'em they can't have Mondo, right?" he repeats, a frantic edge to his voice. "That they got to keep him while he was alive, and they can't fucking have him now that he's gone, right?"

Juzo swallows dryly, but can't force himself to speak. Yukimaru releases him with a choked cry, then kicks the desk as hard as he can manage, sending one half of it squealing back a few inches, knocking both Juzo and the cup of pens on the surface off balance. He recovers better than the writing utensils, which roll and clatter to the ground.

"Fuck," he chokes out, collapsing back into the chair so heavily that it, too, slides backwards with a screech. He leans forward, pressing the heels of his hands into his forehead, and shudders with a silent sob. Something in Juzo's chest snaps painfully, sending little shards flying in the cavity of his ribcage.

"I voted against it," he says quietly. It's a pretty pathetic defense.

"Fuck your vote," Yukimaru grits, followed by a gasping inhale. That's fair, he supposes, and even if it wasn't, it'd be hard to hold it against him right now.

He's half expecting Yukimaru to storm out any minute, but he doesn't. After another moment's hesitation, he walks to the other side of his desk and pulls open one of the bottom drawers. Inside, among other accumulated medical supplies, is a bottle of antiseptic and a few clean washcloths. He grabs those, along with his water bottle from where it, too, had been knocked to the floor, and stands in front of Yukimaru.

"Hey. Look at me."

Yukimaru scoffs, but, after a second, obeys, dropping his hands into his lap heavily and grimacing up at him. There are fresh tear tracks on his face, leaving clean lines through the dirt and blood in their wake. It'd probably be easier to do this if he were kneeling in front of him instead, but if he's learned anything about Yukimaru, it's that something like that runs the risk of pissing him off worse, so this will have to do.

"Hold this," he says, handing off one of the washcloths and the antiseptic.

"You don't gotta…" Yukimaru begins to protest, but he doesn't complete the sentence or get up to leave, so Juzo ignores it. He tips some of the cold water onto the cloth still in his hand, then gently wipes at Yukimaru's face, starting with just under his eyes. He gives a small, almost inaudible hiss as the cloth touches his skin, but doesn't twitch away.

"How did it go out there?" His voice is low, just slightly above a murmur.

Yukimaru gives a quiet, watery scoff that's almost a laugh. "Wasn't fuckin' great. No Future Foundation casualties, far as I could tell, but a lot of injuries. Miyu's probably gonna lose a leg."

"Shit," he mumbles. Miyu's always been a little too brave for her own good. He figure it'd come back to bite her one day, and is privately a little relieved that a leg is all she'd be losing.

"Yeah."

"They get you?"

He looks somewhere behind Juzo. "M'fine."

"Yukimaru."

He frowns. "…Kicked me in the ribs a bit. I'll live."

"Anything broken?"

"No," he insists, too quickly. Juzo's brow furrows, but he focuses on the task at hand for the time being.

It's a lot of pretending not to notice that he's crying. He's never been sure what to do with that at the best of times, even if it was something as inconsequential as an aquaintance's breakup or one of his (two) friends fighting with their families, and this is magnitudes more serious and less fixable.

It's an exceptionally easy position to imagine himself in, too, which is making things worse. He'll have no say on what happens to any of Munakata's wordly belongings when he dies, if he dies before Juzo and if Juzo makes it long enough to even stake a claim, which is exceptionally unlikely. All affections (and he does internally wince at the very thought of the word) aside, he cannot imagine living beyond his very purpose the way Yukimaru has managed to, only to then have to endure the people who make the rules rubbing salt in the wound by reducing that life-defining relationship to nothing.

Yukimaru's eyes have drifted closed at some point, his brow furrowed, shoulders shaking slightly. Juzo's hand had stopped moving, too, washcloth pressed against his cheek, and Yukimaru is leaning into it, just a little bit.

Juzo pretends not to notice that, either.

"…This is gonna sting," he says eventually, handing off the dirty rag and water bottle and taking the clean one and the antiseptic. Yukimaru's eyes flutter back open, and once he's recovered, he nods. Juzo tips a small amount onto the fabric, then dabs at a gash that runs down his right cheek. He inhales, small and sharp, but otherwise manages not to react.

He straightens once it's done, his back aching slightly. It's not so bad that Yukimaru's gonna need stitches, thankfully, but it should at least be bandaged before too long.

"Go see your nurse," he says. It's a softer command than he means for it to be. Yukimaru still frowns at it.

"She's gonna be swamped. I'll deal with it."

"You're not walking off a broken rib."

"It's not broken," he insists again, hand going to guard his left side, but he hisses at his own touch. Juzo raises an eyebrow pointedly, and Yukimaru scoffs.

"Doesn't mean anything."

"Yukimaru."

He stands with some effort. "…Tell 'em they can't have Mondo and I will."

"You aren't using your own goddamn medical care as a bargaining chip."

"Sakakura, right now one of us cares about my fuckin' ribs, and it sure as hell ain't me." He straightens with a slight wince. "Call it a pain strike or whatever."

He huffs. "…I'll do what I can."

"Promise me."

He sighs, chewing on his cheek, but, after a moment, offers his pinkie. It's juvenile, maybe, but he's not spitting into his palm or cutting it open, so it's what he's getting.

"Everything in my power," he swears. Yukimaru links his own pinkie with Juzo's and nods, shaking once with a note of finality.

"Alright." He swallows thickly. "…Thanks."

"Yeah." He nods at the door. "Go see your nurse, asshole."

"On it, boss." He lets go and gives a lazy, sarcastic salute before unlocking the door and heading out. Juzo waits for a moment after it shuts behind him, taking a few deep breaths before crouching down to pick his pens up from the floor.

They're taken to tour the facility in small groups whenever Kirigiri can fit it into her schedule, which ends up being several days apart each time. Juzo is among the first to go, thanks to the Sixth's direct involvement, alongside Tengan, Gozu, and Munakata. He keeps a careful distance from Munakata, who seems just as keen on avoiding his eye.

"Frosty in here, isn't it, Gozu?" Tengan comments. Juzo does not glare at the head of the Future Foundation, but it takes serious effort.

"…Sir," Gozu says in neutral acknowedgement, which is probably one of the only diplomatic responses. Tengan smirks anyway.

"The facility will need renovations, but the location is ideal," Kirigiri explains. "The structure of the building itself is also largely undamaged, so repairs would be minimal and mostly cosmetic."

To Juzo, it looks like a small, empty warehouse, but he supposes he's not an expert on these things. Munakata surveys the space and nods approvingly.

"What makes the location ideal, exactly?" Gozu asks.

"It's far away from any large hubs of despair activity, and nearly equidistant from the Future Foundation and Hope's Peak Academy. It mitigates risk for our reclamation teams."

"And who's on the reclamation teams?" Juzo asks.

Kirigiri gives him one of her unreadable looks. "Several combat-trained members of the Tenth Division have volunteered. The Sixth Division won't be asked to supply anyone beyond the agreed security detail."

He grumbles waste of my damn resources under his breath anyway, but that goes entirely unacknowledged. Kirigiri walks through the space, gesturing at empty air and occasionally referencing a floor plan on a clipboard she keeps tucked under her arm.

"It's the opinion of the survivors that the dead shouldn't be separated into blackened and victim," she explains. "Ideally, individual exhibits will be built around a large, circular central chamber, positioned according to their podiums during class trials. We are also of the opinion that if the rest of us are to have our own room, it should be consolidated into one, directly opposite Enoshima's."

Juzo's blood runs cold. Luckily, Gozu is able to speak before he's expected to.

"You expect Enoshima to have an exhibit of her own?" Gozu asks. He'd almost look impassive if not for the way his hands twitch at his side.

"Certainly. It does us no good to pretend she hadn't existed. Ikusaba will be with her, more than likely, partially for lack of any traceable worldly belongings."

"I don't believe anyone is pretending she didn't exist," Munakata interjects. "Look around you. We know she existed. The world is still suffering the consequences."

"She was our classmate. She died during the killing game. Ergo, Enoshima room."

"To hell with a fucking classmate," Juzo interjects. "She's the goddamn devil. She deserved what she got and worse, and she sure as hell doesn't deserve a memorial exhibit."

"To present a sanitized version of our school experiences, before or after The Tragedy, is to lie. There's no way around that." Kirigiri's tone has taken on a rare sharp edge. "If this is to be anything approaching a symbol of true hope and not some sort of farcial propaganda piece, we are going to have to include Enoshima. Like it or not, she was, and continues to be, an unavoidable focal point in our lives and deaths."

She pauses to take a deep breath, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I can promise you that we've already debated the matter at length amongst ourselves. If it's of any reassurance, Naegi was a vocal proponent of her inclusion."

Of course he was. Crazy bastard wanted her to stay alive, even to the very end. If that's hope, Juzo doesn't think he'll ever fully grasp it.

"I want it on the record that I don't think she should get a goddamn thing in this place," Juzo says, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"Noted," Kirigiri says. "Any further comments?"

"I believe you're exactly right," Tengan says with a nod. "You've done well, Kirigiri. I am happy to leave this in your capable hands."

Gozu nods beside him. Munakata is silent, looking in the direction she'd gestured at for Enoshima's exhibit.

"Very well," she says. "That's the basic floor plan, then. Pending approval, we'll get started on renovations."

Munakata doesn't look away for a long time. Juzo's hand twitches, almost going for his elbow. Reassurance, or an attempt at it, because they're friends and they've been friends since high school. The squabble they'd been in feels exceptionally silly. As if anything, let alone some stupid little museum, could get between them.

But Munakata's staring down the ghost of the woman who'd flayed Juzo and held his skin up like a trophy, jeering with the voice of hundreds of faceless, mindless students. Look, look at how gross you are, she says, manicured fingers wrapping around the limp skin of his wrist and waving his own hand in his face. Wouldn't you just hate it if Munakata saw you right now? If he saw all the disgusting stuff you were hiding under all this? Wouldn't that be so-o-o-o-o awful? Wouldn't you do anything to put this back on and go back to keeping all that mess tucked away inside?

So that could get between them, he supposes. Should've just let her tell him. It's not like he actually managed to save their friendship, even when he did bend to her will; Munakata remains an ocean away from him. He'd have risked losing a lot more than that, surely, the least of which is his dignity, up to and including any titles he'd accumulated, the prestiege offered by being a Hope's Peak alumnus, and his career in boxing, but it's not as if any of those have done him any good since the world ended, anyway.

As it stands, he's in the center of a warehouse that will soon contain the affects of nine dead barely-adults (plus the devil herself, but he does not mourn her) that are all gone because of his inaction. Seven additional lives ruined in the process, too, and that's just the few he'd met personally. Two fathers, two sisters, and those were the only four that would get any sort of say in what was displayed here. The bandmate, the dying boyfriend, and fucking Yukimaru are just going to have to deal with however the Future Foundation sees fit to encapsulate the entireity of their short lives, depriving them of some of the only things their loved ones left behind in the process.

And they were fucking loved, dammit. All the people in that damn meeting who were so intent to say it didn't count can go straight to hell. He is gripped by a sense of injustice that is largely foreign to him and a contempt for his coworkers that is intimately familiar. They nestle up nicely against the guilt.

"Sakakura?"

Munakata's quiet voice breaks through the trance. He's close, brow knitted in rare, undisguised concern. Juzo blinks, taking a moment to remember himself.

Too close. Entirely too close. Dark pupils, blown wide in the low light of the warehouse, set into the most stunning lilac irises he's ever seen stare up at him, unwavering. The other three have already moved on; Juzo can hear their retreating footsteps, but can't look away for long enough to confirm.

"I'm fine," he says quickly, before realizing he hadn't asked. "Let's go."

He's not thinking about that, or any part of this until there's something he can do about it. He especially does not think about how Kyosuke looked at him, nor how his footsteps stutter for a moment before he follows.

He's taking a trip to Kimura's clinic, the one she often shares with Hagakure, because he's running low on antiseptic. That is, at least, what he'll say if anyone asks. If pressed, one of his men was injured on the job, and it's his duty to follow up, even if this is the very first time since the Future Foundation was formed that he's bothered.

No one asks, of course, but he likes to have a plan for these sorts of things.

He knocks twice on the open door as he enters. Kimura smiles when she sees him.

"Good morning, Sakakura," she greets. "Was there something you needed?"

"Low on antiseptic again. Got any extra lying around?"

"I'll see what I can do," she says, and ducks into one of her storage closets. He focuses his attention on Hagakure, who is sitting on the edge of a cot Yukimaru lays in. They both hold a handful of cards. She waves lazily, and Yukimaru mirrors it.

"Hey, Zozo. Want us to deal you in?"

"This is where my department resources are going?" he asks, crossing his arms. Hagakure rolls her eyes.

"I'm not in your department, and Yukimaru's on sick leave. I'm monitoring him. If I don't keep him on a tight leash, he's gonna be back on that motorcycle so fast your head's gonna spin."

"She's right," Yukimaru says with a nod. "Bruised ribs, by the way. Not broken. Told you."

"Damn. You got me," he deadpans. "You can probably be back at work within the week, then, right?"

"Within the day, I bet," Yukimaru says, and tries to swing his legs over the edge of the cot, only to be intercepted by Hagakure's hand on his knee.

"Absolutely not. Both of you stop that." She frowns, looking between them. "Recovery time isn't over until I say so."

"Definitely not until this game is over, at least," Yukimaru agrees.

"What are you playing?"

"Crib, I think." Yukimaru shrugs. "Whatever it is, I'm not good at it."

"Don't listen to him. He's kicking my ass." Hagakure squints at a yellow notepad that sits on the cot between them.

He can't quite bite back a small chucke, so he covers it with a cough as best he can. Hagakure gives him a soft look regardless.

"Hey, uh…" he starts, shifting his weight, "so, how are you— I mean, with the—"

The supply closet door creaks, and Kimura emerges, wringing her hands. "I'm sorry, Sakakura, I don't think I have any antiseptic to spare. My stores are running really low."

"It's, uh, not a big deal. Don't sweat it." He stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Lemme know when you get some more?"

She nods. "Of course."

He lingers for a moment longer. His eye catches Yukimaru's, and the corner of his mouth twitches up, but he makes no attempt at a goodbye beyond that.

…Yukimaru gets it. Juzo knows he gets it. Knowing that fact doesn't help much with the guilt, though.

He turns and leaves, tossing a halfhearted wave over his shoulder on the way out.

Kirigiri's gloved hands are folded in her lap. She sits in the small seat before Juzo's desk, and that barrier is the thing he clings to in order to keep his wits about him. He'd been dreading this meeting more than he'd dreaded anything in a long time.

He's doing his best not to let that show, leaning back in his chair casually, body language carefully schooled to nonchalance. Kirigiri's a goddamn shark, and she's already gotten a whiff of him; if she smells blood in the water, he's done. She is, unfortunately and predictably, the most intelligent, analytical person he's ever personally met, save maybe Enoshima, and he's appropriately terrified of her.

If she's picking up on any of that, though, she doesn't show it (not that he'd expect her to). She's watching him look over the documents she'd brought over, and he can feel her eyes on him. It's a complete summary of the Memorial Museum of Hope initiative (the working title had stuck, it seems, as they tend to), most of which is old information. He's currently staring down the finalized floor plan.

"This is what you're thinking, huh?" He's staring at the room labeled Owada, obviously, but doesn't dare linger for too long.

"Arranged according to their class trial positions, as I said, with the obvious exclusion of the survivors."

"What about this?" He taps a little square room, tucked away on the side of the foyer.

"It's a storage area in the short term, and flex space in the long term. Only Future Foundation members with the required clarance will be able to access it, so there's no need for additional security."

"What clearance is that?"

"Other division heads, namely, and the rest of Class 78. Additional names can be added to the list on a case by case basis."

"How is that gonna be enforced?"

"A Future Foundation badge swipe and fingerprint scan attached to an electronic lock. As I said, it won't be a problem once the museum opens, since the room will be completely empty by then."

He bites the inside of his cheek as he looks at the floor plan again, stuck between a proverbial rock and a hard place. There's a pretty glaring issue, but not so glaring that he can be certain any of the others would bring it up.

He reminds himself that, ultimately, this blood is on his hands, and he can risk his neck for their benefit.

"Owada and Ishimaru aren't together."

"…That's correct. Ogami will be between them."

"You don't think they should be? They were friends."

"We were all friends."

"Yeah, but…" He stares at the paper. "You know what I mean."

She's silent for a long moment. Too long. "I'm not certain that I do, Sakakura."

"Whatever." He pulls the paper off the stack and tucks it in the back. "I think they should be together. That's my piece. Do what you want with it."

"Noted," she says. "You'll see on this page that we've arranged a sample itinerary for guard duty. Feel free to ignore the individual names, of course, they're just to give you an idea of what we're looking for."

Five guards for ten rooms. Two rooms each. Another two on the perimeter. Shifts are staggered so there's no mass exodus in the middle of the day, which is smart; don't want to risk something happening in the commotion. Six four hour shifts for each position— the place will be guarded at all hours. It's sparse on manpower, maybe, but it's pretty tight, all things considered.

He reads through the list of names and gives a derisive laugh. "You expect me to play watchdog? Like I don't have enough shit going on?"

"As I said, it's a sample itinerary. Feel free to ignore it. If you're asking if I think you're above it, however, the answer is no."

He scoffs. "Ballsy."

"Why?" She cocks her head. It feels mocking. "You hold no authority over me, and you're certainly not going to escalate from a percieved insult to physical violence."

"You don't know that."

"I do." She is, as ever, entirely unflappable. "The rest of the pages will be largely inconsequential to you, but you're welcome to peruse them as much as you would like."

"Why bother me with this bullshit if it isn't relevant?"

"Because if I didn't, you and every other division head would be hounding me for them, and I don't have the time for that. Anything else?"

She's probably right, of course. She usually is. Fucking Kirigiri.

"No," he says. "You're dismissed."

"Thank you," she says, rising. "I leave the scheduling in your capable hands. If you could get that taken care of as soon as you're able— we'd like to start transport and storage as soon as renovations are completed."

"Yeah, whatever." He waves her off. She doesn't seem to take it personally, nodding her head and exiting.

He flips through the stack of papers again. If Kirigiri noticed anything, or figured him out, god fucking forbid, she'd made no indication of it. With her, though, there's really no way of knowing, is there?

The floor plan is shuffled to the top of the stack, and Juzo stares down at it, drumming his fingers on the wood of the desk. They make a series of slow, rolling thuds as he thinks.

Might be a good idea to start commiting these pages to memory. Just in case.

Juzo's bowl is empty, which is fine. He'd had a reasonable amount of the food Yukimaru had prepared, and he feels alright. Awkward, mostly, if anything.

He'd not really wanted to be here, but Hagakure had come to hand-deliver the invitation. She, herself, is not in attendance, however.

"Things are tense in the regular people corner of the foundation," she had sighed, keeping pace with him as he walked the perimeter, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lip. "My boys are fighting. Ruru hasn't showed up to any of our big dinners since the Kuzuryus roughed him up."

"And you want me to, what, mediate?"

She snorts. "Hell no. Wouldn't put you in the middle of that. Just want you to go make sure him and Takaaki are eating a vegetable every so often."

He frowned. "I don't think he's going to be any more receptive to me than he is to your son. I'm not exactly innocent there, either."

"You're new. He's still trying to impress you." She shrugged. "He's just being pouty. Probably a little mad I won't let him back on his motorcycle, too."

"I mean, I'd be pretty mad if I were in his position."

"Oh, me too, don't get me wrong. I think he's got every right to feel what he's feeling." She patted her pockets. "It's one of those things, though, right? He's young, and he's been a spitfire for as long as any of us have known him. He's still got this idea in his head that everything's gonna work out someday if he just keeps trying at it. Doesn't know that sometimes bad things happen for no reason at all, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. You got a light?"

"…No," he had said, brow creasing. "That's an awfully pessimistic way of looking at things."

"It's sink or swim out here. Sometimes you gotta toss out the parts that are weighing you down, and getting your hopes up over and over just to see 'em crushed is one of the first things to go. Was for me, at least." She rolled her eyes. "Don't gimme that look. You know it's true."

"I don't think it is."

"Well, you're young, too." She did manage to find a lighter after all, stuffed into her jacket pocket. "Anyways, if you joined them for dinner, I'd really owe you one."

He'd not made any promises then, but here he is anyway, sitting at the too-large table, across from Ishimaru and next to Yukimaru. Ishimaru is wearing the same thing he always was when Juzo saw him— a white button-up, black dress pants that were a touch too short for him, and a red tie, though the tie is loosened and his sleeves are rolled up as he eats. Yukimaru, conversely, looks exceptionally casual, wearing a faded graphic tee shirt that's a little too big for him and blue jeans.

Dinner is fried tofu in some sort of spicy sauce over rice and "whatever was about to go off," according to Yukimaru, which seemed to be mostly cabbage, steamed and served with… maybe just salt? Juzo certainly can't pick out any other flavors.

"How are things in the Sixth Division, Sakakura?" Ishimaru asks, staring down at his plate.

Before Juzo can respond, Yukimaru groans. "I don't wanna talk about work. I'm off."

"You're on medical leave, not vacation. Work is the most easily accesible point of common interest."

"Access a different one, then."

"Fine. Sakakura, what are your opinions on the current state of affairs?"

"Just… in general?" Juzo shrugs. "I mean, it's not good out there."

"So it isn't." Ishimaru doesn't look up from his plate. "I'd love to ask what the Sixth Division is doing to improve that, but the topic has been banned, so I suppose we will all just sit here and wallow in our misery."

Yukimaru groans again, more loudly this time, but when Juzo looks over, he's badly concealing a smile. Ishimaru's doing a slightly better job of hiding it— the barest tug upward at the corner of his mouth, and that's it.

Juzo fights the urge to chuckle. The large get-togethers with Yukimaru and his friends are nice, sure, and he likes seeing them all in their natural state of being, but this is something else entirely. It's nice, comfortable— it reminds him a lot of dinners with his own family in the days before he'd been scouted, back when Hope's Peak was no more than an inconsequential blip on their radar.

There's a strange solace in that; in, for lack of a better term, comfortable obscurity. To be no one to the world and everything to the people who know you.

Wen he zones back in, Yukimaru is looking at him strangely. Juzo clears his throat.

"Let me do the dishes," he says, and starts to stand, but Yukimaru stops him.

"Just leave 'em in the sink, I'll get to them later." He stretches carefully and stands. "Supposed to be moving around every so often, anyways."

Ishimaru stands, too. "You cooked. I can clean. You could go for a walk to meet your light exercise quota."

Yukimaru accepts that a lot more easily. "Well, if you insist, old man."

Juzo does chuckle at that, though only under his breath, and shakes his head. Ishimaru takes the empty plate from in front of him before he can move it himself, and Yukimaru's with it. He rises as well, fully intending to leave, but Yukimaru is rocking on his heels. The moment the tap turns on, he looks up at Juzo.

"I have some, uh…" he starts quietly, then clears his throat, "pictures of them. Old polaroids. If you wanna see."

He's a little baffled for a moment; not about who he's referring to, because anyone who's spent more than a minute around Yukimaru knows exactly who he's always orbiting, but by the fact that he's offering at all. Juzo's certainly not done anything to earn it.

"Sure," he says. It's surprisingly nonchalant, considering that his heart rate has picked up severely. Yukimaru grins all the same, though, then makes his way further into the apartment. Juzo hesitates for all of a moment before following.

Yukimaru's room is pretty small, and absolutely stuffed with what Juzo could very uncharitably call clutter. Posters line the walls; motorcycles, predictably, some of which look taken straight out of magazines and most of which have been torn and taped back up. There's also no shortage of covers pages carefully cut from Barazoku, men with kind, sultry eyes rendered in soft colors, yellowed slightly with age, which Juzo can't look at for more than a second before he starts to blush. He quickly redirects his attention.

Yukimaru's old biker uniform also hangs from the wall, held up by a wire hanger. It's nicer than Juzo had imagined it to be; hand-embroidered, from what Juzo can tell, swirling lines of gold climbing up the right sleeve and left pant leg. It must have taken hours.

Other than the bed, which Yukimaru has dropped to the floor to dig beneath, there's a short dresser with a mirror set atop it. Every inch of the surface is covered in little tchotchkes— a few palm-sized clay tigers, a hand-sewn white dragon plush that could fit comfortably in a pocket, a clay mug full of pens with fluffy baubles at the top, a modest stack books with titles Juzo's never heard, a few sticks of incense (but, notably, no burner), and a lot of other things Juzo doesn't think he could name if he tried.

The mirror, too, is cluttered, with so many photos and little paper scraps tucked into the frame that it's almost unusable. The paper, upon closer inspection, seems to be primarily pencil drawings of cute girls and comically buff men, the latter of which is expected, though the former surprises him. They're also definitely penned on Future Foundation paperwork, but he's electing to ignore that.

The photos are more familiar (though Juzo had half-expected to see Owada among the faces, somehow); his friends, mostly. Haneyama and Yamada striking some sort of pose, Ichirou mid-wave with a soft smile on his face, the Hagakures beaming while the elder of them has a finger hooked in the corner of Ishimaru's mouth, trying to force his face into a grin, and so on. When Juzo catches his reflection in the small pocket of unoccupied mirror, he, too, has a small smile.

It's a very far cry from Juzo's too-large, too-empty apartment, with an entire guest room that goes completely unused. He tries not to dwell on that.

"There we go," Yukimaru grunts, extracting a shoebox and setting it on his lap. Juzo hesitates for a moment, but eventually sits beside him, back pressed against the side of his mattress.

He opens the box slowly— it had certainly seen better days, now boasting several dents and a couple of likely load-bearing strips of duct tape, but Yukimaru treats the thing like it will disintegrate in his hands if he so much as breathes too hard on it. Inside, there's a stack of polaroids, yes, but also an old flip phone, a couple CDs, a small sewing kit, a half-used skein of embroidery floss taped to a receipt, a small, worn pendant that was probably won from a gachapon machine once upon a time, used birthday candles, and… a lot of what Juzo is very much not considering garbage, but only due to its clear sentimentality. Yukimaru extracts the polaroids just as carefully, then gingerly sets the box on the ground beside him.

"This was Mondo's fourteenth birthday party," Yukimaru says quietly, holding the first photo delicately between two fingers. Juzo could have guessed, due to the big 14 candles stuck into the top of the homemade cake and Owada's wide grin, but he just nods.

"Daiya took this one. Recognize her?" Yukimaru taps the yellow motorcycle that stands behind where Owada and himself seem to be half-embracing, half-tackling each other. They're similar heights here, limbs equally reedy; Yukimaru has changed some, sure, but the difference between this Owada and the one from the broadcast are night and day.

"Your bike?" he guesses. She's much more shiny and woefully unpainted, but it's hard to mistake her for anything else.

"Sure is."

"You were, what, thirteen here? You shouldn't have been on the road, let alone on something with a seven hundred and fifty cubic centimeter engine."

"Aw, you remembered her specs? I'll tell her you're thinking about her, but she's pretty loyal to me, y'know."

"I'm not kidding. How the hell did you even steer?"

Yukimaru chuckles. "She was Daiya's before she was mine. I learned on his old ride. Here."

He pulls the next polaroid from the stack, and there's a grey motorbike of a much more reasonable size. Leaning heavily on it and grinning sideways is a young man in a white tank top and motor oil-stained jeans, with thick, dark hair slicked back and eyes so dark blue that they're almost black.

"See? A toddler could ride that," Yukimaru says.

Juzo lingers for a moment, his index finger going to lightly touch Yukimaru's wrist, stopping him from putting it back. Yukimaru pauses, but obliges, holding the photo a little closer to Juzo.

"That's Owada's brother?" he asks quietly.

"…Yeah." Yukimaru's voice has dropped, too. "I guess you've never seen him before, have you?"

"No, I haven't." In truth, and Juzo hadn't realized this until this very second, he'd always sort of pictured Owada's brother as Owada's sillhouette, a shadow; maybe a little different, but only in some sort of nebulous, hard to pinpoint way. He'd not even thought of him as a man with a face, really, just some amalgamation of half-defined traits that are sort of like Owada's, but not quite. This man, the one in the photographs, had led a complete, distinct existence, cut tragically short.

This is another man Yukimaru loved, if he can make a bold and incredibly safe assumption, who was gone now, except maybe no one else in the entire world remembers Daiya Owada, incorrectly and insidiously or not.

"He's…" he swallows, his mouth dry. "How old was he here?"

"Uh, either twenty or just turned twenty-one, I think. It was before I knew them." He carefully shuffles through the stack again, then extracts a new photo. In it, Owada's brother, slightly more solidly built and a lot more tired, has one arm around Owada's shoulder (and he seems to be trying very hard to seem displeased at that, as teenagers do, but the way he holds his brother's wrist where it dangles from his shoulder betrays him), while the other one is half-supporting Yukimaru, who is riding piggyback and positively cheesing from behind him. His hair is messy, and if Juzo thought he was skinny now, the school-aged kid who stares back is positively gaunt. It's a little unnerving.

"This is a little after we met," he says, and his soft voice is impossibly fond. "Me and Mondo were in middle school together. You can still kinda see the shiner he gave me in this one."

"You two got into a fight?"

"Yeah. Couple of 'em. It's how I make a lot of my friends." He gives Juzo a sideways smile, his golden eyes still sparkling, and elbows him gently in the arm. Juzo does let out a breathy little chuckle at that, despite himself.

"…You look small here," he comments, eyes darting back to the photo in Yukimaru's hands. Inelegant way to broach the subject, maybe. Juzo's grace extends to the ring and very much not to his conversational skills.

"Hah, yeah. Group home and all that." He sets the photograph aside and keeps shuffling. Juzo is almost as reluctant to push as Yukimaru seems to be to elaborate, so both of them let the matter lie.

"Here. This is a better look at him," Yukimaru says. It's a close-up of Daiya in what looks to be some sort of elaborate biker outfit, colorful and complete with a feather boa, though the photo cuts him off at the shoulders. He's smiling with all of his teeth, so wide it causes little wrinkles to form in the corner of his eyes. He looks exceptionally beautiful here; it's the sort of thing a newspaper prints after a celebritiy dies.

"When was this?"

"His retirement party." He swallows thickly. "Last, uh. Last photo we ever got of him. Had copies of it made for the funeral."

Yukimaru is silent for a long time, staring down at the photo. Juzo starts to wonder if he'd rather be alone and he should quietly excuse himself, but Yukimaru clears his throat.

"Mondo didn't kill him, y'know," he says quietly, looking up at the wall. "I mean, I know he thinks he did, but Daiya made the choice. If he—"

He squeezes his eyes shut breathes, slow and intentional, then counts down from five, so quiet that Juzo wouldn't be able to hear it if he were more than a few inches away.

"If Daiya were still around, he'd have found a way to march into that fucking school and get executed in his place, too. Always woulda traded his life for Mondo's if he had the chance. He loved him more than anything. Uprooted his fucking life at fourteen and ran away to some nowhere town in Aichi with him so he wouldn't have to... Mondo was stupid sometimes, but he wasn't a killer. I mean, not until he was."

"Those were… pretty extenuating circumstances," Juzo says lamely. It's really not enough.

Yukimaru shakes his head. "…Yeah. Sorry, dunno why I'm telling you this. Ain't your burden."

"It's okay," he says before he's certain that it is. Yukimaru is… well, he's a friend, but it's a very different kind of friendship than he's used to. He knew how to navigate Munakata and Chisa because they've always known each other and had clicked from the start. There was no initial awkwardness, no tension (at least not at first, and not for a long time), and certainly no misplaced contempt that culminated in a fistfight in a company garage. He just doesn't know what he's doing here, what's too familiar and what's too standoffish, because he hadn't grown beside Yukimaru and come to know his every rough eccentricity as well as his own.

Maybe the problem is that he hasn't made a friend since he was in high school, lame as it is to admit. Yukimaru is much better at that, if the pictures tucked into his mirror and his legion of die-hard supporters are anything to go by.

…If Yukimaru were someone he'd met at school, though, this whole setup would smack of manipulation. Hope's Peak students, in his experience, are the type who would do anything to claw their way to the top; to be the best sometimes means the path to the podium is paved with blood, and the school itself all but directly encouraged the behavior. It would not just be a man sharing memories of a past none of them can ever go back to, but an underhanded attempt to make Juzo feel bad enough to risk whatever it took to bring what remains of Owada back to him.

Yukimaru isn't from Hope's Peak, though. He's entirely too earnest for his own good. He, to Juzo's knowledge, has never wanted to be anything except for what he is. Certainly not badly enough to kill or maim for it, if that was what it took.

That school makes people worse, he thinks, in all different kinds of ways, and of course he's no exception. Juzo is damned by his own selfishness; hell, if he'd made a better choice that day in the rain, Owada would still be here. There'd be no need for quietly poring over old photos because Yukimaru could take new ones whenever he wanted. They could have that conversation about his brother and reach some sort of closure. And maybe Owada still wouldn't love Yukimaru the way he wanted him to, but Yukimaru probably knows that, too, and seems to have made as much peace with it as is possible.

"I can copy them," he blurts out, mouth working long before his brain has a chance to catch up. "There's a scanner in the Foundation. I could make digital copies. Print them out, even. So you don't have to worry about losing them."

It's a poor choice of words and a fucking stupid thing to offer. Yukimaru obviously doesn't want to hand over the only surviving pictures of the Owadas, and certainly not to an almost-stranger who started off their relationship by beating him in an empty garage. It's asking him to place a lot of entirely unearned trust in Juzo.

Yukimaru, however, blinks up at him for a moment, then smiles, small and… nervous, maybe. Understandably.

"Yeah. I'd like that." He tidies the stack in his hands before handing it over, and Juzo holds it as if it's made of crystal. "Thanks, Sakakura. Pretty sure we can find you something to carry those back in."

Maybe he understands what Hagakure meant when she spoke about Yukimaru's misplaced optimism. Whatever— even if the world is cruel and unjust and fucking unfair, Juzo's not going to be. This, at least, he has the power to do something about.

And maybe he'd like Yukimaru to keep that faith. This, too, is a selfish thing to want, Juzo realizes, but he's not going to think too hard about that, either.

"It's barely an inconvenience. Don't mention it," he says, and means it. Yukimaru's grin widens anyway.

The following weeks are mostly quiet, as far as things in his division ever are. It's a lot of garden variety riot breakup missions, a couple brief investigations into suspicious activity that turn out to be nothing more than the despair-ridden population doing what they do now, and so on; the sort of thing he'd feel more than comforable sending Yukimaru to investigate once he's able to return to work.

…Which, Juzo can admit, is a bit of a strange metric, but it's the first thing his mind goes to when a report crosses his desk. Whatever that means. It's not going to stop him from sending Yukimaru on non-Yukimaru missions, at any rate.

The calm is unnerving. He supposes he should expect it when things start to go awry, and part of him does, in a sense, but not in the form it takes.

He can usually ignore Munakata's distinct footsteps as they echo down the hallway. What he cannot ignore is when they stop very close behind him, and Munakata clears his throat.

"Sakakura."

If Juzo were stronger, he would keep walking. As it stands, though, he doesn't even hesitate, turning to meet Munakata's gaze immediately. He's… well, he looks as close to nervous as Munakata ever gets, or maybe Juzo's just projecting.

"Developments have gone smoothly with the museum initiative. They've begun assembling the exhibits. Hopefully, the doors will be open within the month."

"…Sure. Congrats." He can't help the way his brow furrows. Munakata seems, by all accounts, to be attempting to extend some sort of olive branch, but this is a baffling way to go about it considering Juzo's very vocal disdain for the project.

"Thank you, though the credit very much isn't mine. The Fourteenth Division has been working tirelessly to ensure its success." He clears his throat again. "I've been invited to tour the facility, and I was hoping you would join me."

"Now?"

"If you're available."

As if he'd ever not make the time for Munakata. Even now, when they are ideologically opposed for the first time since Juzo first stepped in to help Munakata practice for debate club, when he should be standing his ground, he crumbles.

He sends out a silent apology to Yukimaru. At the end of the day, his loyalties and his heart lie with Munakata, for better or worse.

"Yeah, alright," he says. "My car or yours?"

Maybe Juzo is looking for signs where there aren't any, but he could swear that Munakata softens, just slightly.

The car ride is long and silent, and Munakata's hands stay tight on the wheel the whole time. If he ever looks away from the road ahead, Juzo doesn't see it; he's watching the ruined world roll by, collapsed building after collapsed building. It's certainly not as bad as it had once been— the fact that they're able to drive anywhere at all is a testament to the Twelfth Division's incredible efforts. An impossible bargain: Tokyo, her ground zero, was hit the hardest, but it also had the most recovery poured into it.

Well, perhaps not the most recovery, but it is, in Juzo's very subjective opinion, some of the best. Hope's Peak churns out exactly what it says on the tin, and Enoshima's modus operandi is despair through and through. They're yin and yang, or maybe matter and antimatter, or maybe just the reverse of each other— a nebulous little thing, uniquely susceptible to perversion into its antithesis in a way Juzo hasn't seen in anything else.

They pass a ruined corner store, the windows smashed in and all the shelves toppled over and stripped of anything valuable. Something in his chest twists, but only slightly; he feels every loss, but there are magnitudes to it. This isn't a household or a shrine— no one lived or worshipped here. Still, people knew it, and have been living without it and with the knowledge that there's now nothing where there once was something.

…The clean duality may be artificially imposed. Perhaps it's true that Hope's Peak alumni can be cleanly sorted into hope and despair, those who joined her and those who swore their lives against her, but the world is so much larger than one school. Real people exist who have never and will never see the inside of those gates, who lived full lives and deserved to be more than another number in a death toll that creeps ever upwards or part of the faceless millions that Hope's Peak students are expected to serve and be idolized by in equal measure.

And maybe he's more of one than the other than he'd like to admit. Maybe Juzo had taken more despair unto himself that day in the rain than he's willing to confront, with Enoshima jeering and laughing with the voice of thousands.

It's an uncomfortable thing to think about. Luckily, Munakata's pulling over and parking the car beside the warehouse, completely unassuming from the exterior. Juzo unbuckles, grateful for the opprotunity to stretch his legs.

(He can feel Munakata's eyes on him now. He forces himself to ignore it.)

The museum is almost unrecognizable from the hollowed-out shell of a bulding Juzo had seen when he visited last, and exactly as Kirigiri's plans had outlined. They enter into a foyer, the plaster walls lined with framed photos of the studings. Juzo can't help but stare; he'd seen a few of these during the broadcast, but there must be hundreds here, stretching from eye level nearly to the ceiling. Some of them must have been donated by the families; there's a young boy with bushy eyebrows and striking red eyes, no more than five, saluting and beaming so wide he shows all his teeth, dressed in clothes that are just a little too big for him. There's a couple hand-drawn panels, even, that Juzo must assume are Yamada's, indents from erased pencil streaks barely visible beneath the glass.

It's immediately awe-inspiring, but that doesn't last long. Even here, the discrepancy makes itself obvious; there are not, at least in Juzo's very cursory investigation, any photos of Ogami, Ludenberg, or Owada from before their high school years. Maizono's got a couple, but even that only goes as far as her idol career. No baby photos. Nothing from before they'd graduated from human being to symbol of hope.

Juzo is inappropriately anxious, as though he'll have something to confront once he enters the central chamber. As if the ghosts he'll be facing are of any real personal importance and not near-strangers.

"This is impressive," Munakata comments, his low voice still echoing in the near-empty room, stopping beside Juzo to crane his head back and admire the gallery. "They've managed to track down more than I'd think them able to."

It's easy to find photos if everyone in the world was taking them, Juzo doesn't say. Instead, he shrugs.

"This was probably the easy part. We should check out the inside."

Munakata nods, hesitating for just a beat before proceeding to the entrance on the far side of the corridor. Juzo, as ever, follows on his heels.

They'd installed a skylight that spans the entireity of the central chamber's ceiling. Though ill-advised, Juzo is certain that it will be beautiful once they manage to clear the air of the thick cloud of red smog that chokes the world. For now, it casts the entire room in an eerie, melancholy glow.

There are no doors to the students' respective rooms, but open archways. A few Future Foundation employees duck in and out, whispering to each other and gesturing at various parts of the building, paying neither of them any mind beyond the occasional respectful nod. Munakata approaches what appears to be Maizono's first, if the quiet pop music playing from inside is any indication, and Juzo follows. Hung beside the entrance is, to his surprise, the nameplate from her dorm room, which seems… callous, in her specific case.

He can just picture it— a dozed Future Foundation employees in tactical gear, fighting their way into Hope's Peak Academy, lifting the dormitory nameplates from the doors and carefully tucking them into bulletproof cases before proceeding to enter and gut the place, scraping everything they can from the inside. His stomach twists again.

Juzo only enters when Munakata does. The space is large, maybe a little smaller than the dorm rooms, and surprisingly simple for someone like Maizono. In the back appears to be a small television hun from the wall, playing one of her performances. The camera undoubtedly lingers on her the most, but Haneyama is impossible to miss if you're looking for her.

And he is. He's searching for any indication, foolishly, that they're not separating their lives into before and after and scrubbing any indication of the former.

The plaque beneath the screen talks about her group, briefly about the lengths Maizono had been willing to go to in order to rejoin them, but Haneyama is not mentioned by name. It doesn't seem as if she'd been intentionally excluded, of course, but simply… forgotten about. There had been no effort to include her, so she just wasn't there, effectively erased from the story of Maizono entirely.

Juzo isn't especially close with Haneyama, so he can't speak to how devastating that may or may not be for her, but he can't imagine it's especially pleasant.

Other than that, there's a couple more homages to ger career— outfits she'd worn onstage, posters, and the like, along with a handful of testemonials about her middle school years, apparently penned by Naegi himself, accompanied by a stone statue of a crane resting on a shelf. Something in Juzo's chest twinges at that, admittedly, just slightly.

Munakata surveys the room without comment. He exits, and seems to have elected to continue their tour in a clockwise direction.

Ishimaru's room is exceptionally well-stocked compared to Maizono's. His notebooks lay open beneath a plexiglass panel, some school notes and some more personal, and a mannequin has been dressed in one of his old uniforms. There's a small, clumsily hand-sewn hawk plush that looks well loved, about a thousand photos on the walls, and— ah.

A small, ornate wooden box sits atop a recreation of Ishimaru's tidy desk, behind a velvet rope. It's painted red and gold, and on the side, just barely visible, is a handwritten message.

I am so proud of you.

There's no direct mention of his father anywhere in this room, either, but Juzo has to assume that's by his own request. Foolishly, he'd assumed Ishimaru senior would be just as opposed to this as Yukimaru was, but that doesn't seem to be the case; if anything, he appears to have handed off nearly every accumulated memento with enthusiasm. Juzo has to assume that Yukimaru is none the wiser, and that's the only reason they've managed to stay cordial.

He's not go business judging how a man mourns his son, so he doesn't.

Munakata gazes around the room silently once again, leaning in to inspect the journals with interest. He, reasonably, spends more time here than in the previous room, poring over every detail. He does not seem to suffer from the same out-of-place sensation that Juzo is subject to, shifting his weight awkwardly in what feels less like an exhibit and more like a dead man's bedroom.

He leaves moments before Juzo can do so himself, overwhelmed and uncomfortable. Munakata, conversely, seems as unaffected and clinical as ever, moving from Ishimaru's room to Ogami's wordlessly.

This was surpisingly sparse, too. That scarf had made its way into a display case alongside a gi, and one of Ogami's matches played on a screen in the back, similar to Maizono's, but other that that, the things in here could belong to anyone. The informational plaques along the walls, interestingly, reminded Juzo of Kirigiri's measured cadence and not Asahina's like he had been expecting. Maybe she'd been similarly opposed to the project.

"…Rather empty in here," Munakata comments, brow furrowed. Juzo nods.

"Guess she didn't leave much behind."

"I suppose not."

Neither one of them is satisfied with that answer, and it shows on Munakata's face. He doesn't press any further, however, turning and exiting this room just as silently unmoved as he had the last two.

Juzo is glad to be at Munakata's back, because it means the long, slow breath he takes before entering the next exhibit goes unnoticed.

He hadn't known Owada personally. Like most of the world, to him, he'd only been an attendee of Juzo's alma mater, a symbol of talent and hope like the rest of them, and the man he'd been in his very worst moments. If not for Yukimaru, that would be all he knew of him.

And maybe if that had been the only lens he'd seen Owada through, this room would be fine. It has all the markings of a once-biker gang leader— the flag of his gang, the creed painted in big letters on the back wall, a couple books found in his room, and in the center of it all, his coat draped over the shoulders of another mannequin, hand-embroidered and, evidently, carefully dry cleaned after his gruesome execution.

Yeah, this would probably be fine. It's a near-perfect fascimile of a fascimile. It's a great memorial to some hypothetical man who had only ever been one thing for his whole life.

There's a lot of information about the Crazy Diamonds, and further information on biker gangs as a whole. In it, his brother is mentioned only in passing as the founder former leader who had 'passed', leaving Owada in charge.

Here, too, there's a small collection of recovered journals, kept behind glass. Owada's penmanship is much worse, and—

He's prone to doodling. Particularly motorcycles, predictably, as well as one dark haired boy with bushy eyebrows and a wide grin and a shorter, meaner looking boy in a uniform that's just a bit too big for him.

This, too, does not mention Yukimaru by name. He probably wouldn't be on display at all if not for Ishimaru's presence on the page. They've got the flag pinned to the wall with no indication of who once carried it.

Juzo feels like he's going to vomit. He's frozen in place, looking at a shitty ballpoint pen doodle of a man drawn by the late, unrequited love of his life, and no one else in the goddamn world seems to think it's important that he gets to see it.

"…Do you think this is a good idea?"

He's surprised to hear Munakata's voice. He swallows drily, not turning around.

"Doesn't matter, does it? It's happening. It already happened."

"You're still opposed, then."

"I'm not gonna go against the Future Foundation on it, if that's what you're worried about."

"It isn't."

That's enough to finally break Juzo out of his trance. He turns, and Munakata is staring at him, brow furrowed.

"You're truly not moved?" Munakata asks. "They were so clearly loved. That doesn't speak to you at all?"

"I knew they were loved." He has to cover his face with a hand. "It's all these other assholes that keep saying some of that love doesn't fucking matter."

"Sakakura, I'm not sure what you think is being excluded here, but—"

"You never answered me, Kyosuke."

He stops, jaw snapping shut mid-sentence, then tightening.

"This isn't about that."

"Tell me you could live with it and I'll drop it. Every objection." He drops his hand, and it balls into a fist at his side. "Because if it were you or Chisa, I know I sure as hell couldn't."

It's almost a confession. It is a confession, but not the one that's been dangling over his neck like the shining blade of a guillotine. Munakata is struck silent, his throat bobbing as he swallows.

"I…" Munakata can't maintain eye contact, staring at the flag hung from the wall. "I don't know."

"Right." As if Munakata has ever been uncertain of anything. Doesn't matter— Juzo needs to be out of this room before he starts to either break stuff or hurl, anyway. "Let's go. Still got half the building to look at."

He leaves first, walking past Enoshima and Ikusaba's room without sparing a glance inside and heading toward Fujisaki's. It takes a while for Munakata's footsteps to follow.

Yukimaru's return to work plan still has him avoiding anything too physically strenuous for a while. Unfortunately, that's most of the job in the Sixth, so Juzo's just been handing off whatever paperwork Yukimaru's got appropriate clearance for.

"Here," Juzo says, holding out a stack of papers. Yukimaru flips through them and groans.

"Another incident report? How many fuckin' incidents are people getting into?"

"In our line of work? A lot." He shrugs. "If you don't wanna keep dealing with them, stop coming to tell me you ran out of shit to do."

"I'm not. Came here to bother you."

"And if you have time to bother me, you have time to do paperwork." He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. "It's working, by the way."

Yukimaru huffs, then sits in the chair across from Juzo. "What's the point in being friends with my boss if I don't even get to have some fun with it?"

"I'm not fun."

"Yeah. Obviously. Wish you'd told me earlier." Yukimaru takes one of the pens from Juzo's cup holder and starts going over the report, elbow on the desk and chin in his hand. It's really not a workspace fit for two, but Yukimaru either doesn't notice or doesn't care. Probably the latter, if Juzo were to guess.

"You can't do this somewhere else?" Juzo sighs.

"Nope. Some of us don't get a nice, cushy office."

"You don't want an office."

"Why would I? Yours works fine."

"Right." He rolls his eyes. Yukimaru gives him a smarmy grin, then returns to his paperwork.

Juzo laces his fingers together behind his head and leans back, staring at the place where the wall meets the ceiling on the far side of the room, and stays that way for a long time. It's almost excessively casual, but he figures better that than the alternative.

"Hey, what, you aren't even working on anything?" Yukimaru asks. "Why the hell am I doing this shit, then?"

Juzo shrugs. "Getting a secretary's left me with a lotta free time."

"Oh, go fuck yourself, Sakakura, you can do your own damn paperwork." Yukimaru sets his pen down and stands, either unwilling to hide his amused grin or not attempting to at all. "I'll go hang out with Hiroko or somethin'."

"Language. I'm still your boss."

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, whatever. Like you're gonna do anything about it."

"I might."

"No you won't." And he's right, but Juzo's not about to say as much.

He's expecting Yukimaru to leave, maybe tossing a wave over his shoulder as he does, but he lingers, knuckles rapping softly on the surface of the desk.

"Hey, so, uh," he says, "we haven't seen you at dinner in a while."

Juzo quirks an eyebrow. "Didn't know you started going again."

"I am. I mean, it's…" he shifts his weight. "We just kinda, um, aren't talking about it. Can't… can't really be cutting people off for shit like that these days, right? World's too small and Hiro's good people."

"Right." As if Juzo wasn't still fighting with one of his closest and only friends over the very same subject.

"And, I mean, even if I wasn't, you could still… the others miss you, too. You can come by whenever you want to. I don't have to be there."

"Good to know." He'd assume it was a lie if Yukimaru had anything at all to gain from telling it. Part of him still does, anyway.

"But I am. And I miss you most." He scratches the back of his neck, looking over his shoulder at the door. "Or what the fuck ever. Point is, we're gonna be at Hiroko's this Friday if you don't have anything better to do."

He cocks his head, and it's maybe a little condescending. It's better than letting himself look as charmed as he feels, though. "Aw."

"Dude, shut up," Yukimaru says, a flush starting from his neck and rising to his cheeks. "Don't aw me when I'm tryin' to be fuckin' nice to you."

"Noted. I'll be sure to aw you when when you're back to being a pain in my ass."

"Whatever," he huffs, shoving his hands in his pockets. "…See you Friday?"

Juzo shouldn't smile. He can't help himself, though. "Yeah, I'll be there."

Yukimaru returns the look, visibly relaxing his shoulders. "Cool."

He's gone shortly after, abandoning the now-disorganized pile of papers on Juzo's desk. He doesn't pay them any mind, however, instead going for the ring of keys in his pocket and unlocking one of his large desk drawers.

Inside is a coat. Juzo's no sartor, so it had taken a bit of trial and error and no shortage of instructional books, but the thing's a pretty convincing mockup of a First Volcano High School boy's uniform jacket, complete with a purple silk lining and some excessivley difficult to track down brass buttons. He sets it on his lap to retrieve a small sewing kit, then plucks out a skein of embroidery floss from a collection large enough to sew about a hundred biker uniforms. Each of them matched the half-used one he'd spotted in Yukimaru's crumbling shoebox. Both of those are placed on his desk.

He cracks open his laptop. It's still open to the scan of one of Yukimaru's polaroids. The cameras during the killing game had been passable, and Juzo was able to get a lot of information from them— the weight of the fabric, how it moved, how it fit— but they weren't exactly made for capturing small details. The intricacies of the embroidery is almost always reduced to a gold smear.

The photo on the screen is Owada, of course, pictured from behind, casting a smile over his shoulder and flexing dramatically. The sleeves of his uniform are rolled up to the elbow, which is fine— Juzo's mostly focused on the insignia on the back. He zooms in further, finding that the point on the diamond emblem to the very right is a little bit crooked, skewing barely upward at the end. He bites his lip and flips through a few more photos to confirm, and from what he can tell, it seems consistent.

He huffs, sets the coat on the desk, scrubs the chalk from that part of the design off with his thumb, and retraces it.

They used to get tea together sometimes. Or, well, more accurately, Chisa and Munakata would get tea and Juzo would sit and make conversation, enjoying the little pastries and finger sandwiches (which his academy-appointed nutritionist would get on his case about if he so much as looked at them for too long) vicariously through the two of them. It was one of Chisa's favorite ways to spend their weekends— she had a long list of different little cafes to try, and a more curated but still extensive rota of ones worth returning to. Munakata would usually make some admonishing comment while holding a forkful of shortcake or fruit tart aloft, but his complaints almost always dried up by the time it made it into his mouth.

Munakata would get a stray smear of whipped cream on the corner of his mouth, and Chisa would chuckle and dab it away, and Juzo would… be there, across the table from them, hands balled into fists in his lap until she turned back to him and smiled.

Sometimes it felt like he was intruding. Not often, because she's his best friend in the world and he knew she wanted him there, but when she'd laugh so hard at him her nose wrinkled, or their hands brushed while passing the little bowl of sugar and she got that soft, glowing flush about her, it was hard not to feel out of place.

Maybe he was a touch jealous, too, not only because it was Munakata but because he was looking in on a world he'd never be part of. Even if there was room in Juzo's wasted heart for anyone but him, he'd never be able to link their pinkies together atop a table in a crowded restaurant. Easy and open affection would never pass from himself to anyone else. There's not a place in the world that would feel safe enough for that other than his own home, optimistically, and even then maybe only with the doors deadbolted and the curtains drawn.

Try as he might, though, he couldn't crush his feelings for Munakata, so it was all for nothing. He'd never have it anyway, because Munakata doesn't care for him like that, and maybe he didn't even really like him anymore, either.

They're still keeping the traditon alive, though, sort of. Munakata no longer joined them, but some mornings, Chisa would have a cup of black tea with sugar in the Future Foundation eatery, with a little saran-wrapped slice of cake or homemade cookie if she could get it, and Juzo would sit across from her and politely turn down any offers to share.

(Juzo could have some now, he knows, because he's neither under the scrutiny of Hope's Peak Academy nor competing in the professional heavyweight circut, but old habits die hard.)

She hums softly as she chews— she's gotten her hands on a berry muffin, which Juzo chooses to believe means the Eleventh Division is making some agricultural progress, which is nice.

…He can't remember Chisa humming overmuch when they were younger, but some of those memories have grown blurry with age, no matter how he tries to cling to them. He's probably just forgotten, he reasons.

She waves the spoon she'd been stirring her tea with to get his attention before she's even swallowed her bite. "Hey, have you and Kyosuke made up yet?"

He shrugs. "You know how it is with him."

"Don't I ever," she sighs. "That's a no, then?"

"Nope."

She frowns down at her tea, stirring it uselessly. "I hate when you two fight."

"…Me too," he sighs, almost inaudible and only because the two of them are the only people in the room.

"What's got you two on the outs, anyway? Is it the museum, or are you still mad he transferred Yukimaru to your division?"

"It's the museum. Yukimaru's old news." He shrugs halfheartedly. "It's fine. We'll get over it, same as we always do."

"Well, hurry up," he huffs. "I can get sick to death of you two, you know that?"

"Yeah, I know," he says with a smile. He's pretty sure the two of them still don't see eye to eye on the project, either, but he's even less keen on arguing with her, so he's glad she lets the subject drop.

"How has Yukimaru been, by the way? Is he as bad as you had been worried about?"

"Nah, he's… fine, I guess. Decent at his job, so I can't complain too much."

"Oh, good," she sighs, picking up her muffin again. "I heard about the big kerfuffle you two were having right before he went on leave. Thought you might have kicked him out for good. I'm really happy I was wrong, though!"

His brow furrows. "How'd you hear about that?"

"I have my ways," she says with a wink, taking a bite. "Not that it's hard to hear what you're getting up to when you get all yell-y."

His skin crawls, which is outrageous, because this is Chisa. She's been his friend for almost as long as he's had friends. She's certainly one of the only friends he's hung on to for this long. Even if she were eavesdropping or something, there's almost nothing she'd hear that he wouldn't share with her, anyway.

That almost is the sticking point, though, and he doesn't like that once-unfamiliar, incredibly un-Chisa hollowness in her eyes when she says it.

He's being crazy. He could trust her even in the rare moments when he can't trust himself. Whatever he thinks is going on is the result of post-apocalypse paranoia and nothing more.

He stands. "I should get to work. Thanks for the chat."

"Aw, really? Already?"

"Afraid so. We'll catch up again soon, though, yeah?"

"Of course." She waves. "Don't be a stranger, alright?"

"Never."

As he leaves, to his own odd disappointment, he can't tell for certain whether he feels better or worse for having talked to her.

He goes a different way than usual to get to the Hagakure apartment. It's standard Future Foundation protocol to vary your travel routes, and Juzo's just following orders. It has nothing to do with the unshakeable feeling of being watched that's followed him for the past few days.

A little paranoia is healthy. It keeps him alive. In fact, if he had maybe been just a little more paranoid during his time as head of Hope's Peak Academy security—

Juzo parks behind the building and waits in his car. It's quiet, as it usually is this close to the Future Foundation headquarters, and the sun is just beginning its evening descent. It leaves the sky a sort of warm, dusty grey that might be picturesque if it wasn't the product of a truly obscene quantity of air pollution.

Even so, he sits back and takes it in for a moment. He breathes deep, drinking in the quiet stillness while it lasts, then takes the small bouqet from the passenger seat and exits the vehicle.

He can hear the sound from inside Hagakure's apartment from halfway down the hall, as per usual, raucus laughter and the occasional indistinct shout cutting through the din. It's only grown worse when he finally reaches the door— some of the voices he's still getting used to, but he can recognize Yukimaru in a second, yelling something about watch where're you're going with that.

The first few attempts to knock go predictably unheard, so Juzo, against his every sensibility, lets himself in. The door is unlocked, which always seems a little strange to him, and he has to fight the impulse to reach back and lock it himself as he toes off his shoes.

Predictably, the apartment is in chaos. It's always a little cluttered in here, each surface lined with equipment for every method of clairvoyance under the sun, and a small mountain of lucky koi fish charms nestled between them wherever they would fit. That is certainly not helped by cramming at least half a dozen warm bodies in there with them, and especially not when those warm bodies are buzzing around like worker bees.

"Comin' through," Haneyama says, pushing past Juzo to get to the table, a large bowl of something in her hands. He obediently takes a half-step back, even as she's already set the dish down and ducked back into the kitchenette to retrieve another. Yamada takes her place soon after, mismatched cutlery in one hand and mismatched cloth napkins in the other.

The single, solitary thing not in motion is Ichirou, sat at the table, hands folded on the surface. He smiles pleasantly when Juzo catches his eye, waving one thin hand. Juzo returns the gesture, a little uncertain, and has to drop his gaze.

During the few times he's spoken to Ichirou, he'd been in the dark telecommunications room, which did a lot to conceal how gaunt the guy looked. Here, in the Hagakure apartment, with natural light spilling in from the tall windows, it's incredibly difficult to ignore.

(It kept him away from Hope's Peak, though— there's no doubt in Juzo's mind that he would have gotten an invitation of his own otherwise. Maybe he'd be there alongside Ogami, or maybe down the hall from her. Maybe in another life, he'd have a room in that fucking museum, too, instead of a seat at the table. Maybe dying slow isn't such a bad deal, all things considered, compared to dying abruptly and terrified.)

"Ooh, Zozo, you shouldn't have," Hagakure says as soon as Juzo's stepped into her line of sight, darting out to grab the bouquet from his hands. "Where did you even find these? Feels like I haven't seen flowers in ages."

"Bandai's been working on' em." He gestures vaguely at the lilies now in her hand. "They're kind of a proof of concept. Lemme know how long they end up sticking around for."

"Sure thing," she says, turning back toward the kitchen. "Kaaki, would you get a vase? Zozo got me flowers."

Ishimaru's head snaps up, and he tenses for a moment, before catching sight of Juzo and visibly relaxing. "…Right. Yes, of course."

Juzo tries very hard not to laugh at that. He ends up having to cover a snort with a cough.

Yukimaru, who had been preoccupied with slicing cucumber into thin strips and setting them onto a tray full of other vegetables, looks up and grins. Juzo smiles, too, and it's maybe a little softer than he'd like.

"Hey. Glad you made it."

"Yeah. Thanks for having me," Juzo says. "Anything I can help with?"

Yukimaru passes the tray of vegetables over. "Put that wherever it'll fit?"

Juzo nods, taking the dish and setting the tray on what appears to be the only unoccupied spot on the table. It's excessive even for the headcount, in Juzo's opinion, but he's certainly got no right to complain.

He would be happy to stand, given the close quarters, but Hagakure's son, who carries an armful of chipped plates and bowls, has pulled out a chair for him before he can offer. He takes the seat to his right, and shortly after, Haneyama's on his left. It is one of their smaller gatherings, so there's technically enough chairs to go around, but Yukimaru opts to stand at Ichirou's side, across the table from Juzo and next to Hagakure.

The others begin passing dishes around, and Juzo sits and observes for a moment. Yukimaru leans forward to grab something, bringing his face close to Ichirou's, and when he looks at him, it is with an expression of unabashed soft admiration that cuts right through the exhaustion. It is a look not unlike one a tired old dog might give its owner; Juzo can practically hear his tail thumping. Yukimaru catches his eye and gives his head a small shake, looking at him with a small, amused smile, hand reaching out to softly brush a lock of curly white hair from his shoulder.

It's a completely mundane exchange. The only reaction it gets is an eye roll from Haneyama and a small, affectionate shake of the head from Hagakure. No one in this room gives a damn. Something in Juzo's chest twists.

A dish is pushed into his hands— some sort of radish salad— and it brings Juzo back to the present. He dishes himself about the same amount as everyone else seems to have and passes it to Hagakure's son. When he turns back, Yukimaru and Ichirou both have their own bowl of stew, and Ichirou is ladling the solids from his own into Yukimaru's. He mumbles something Juzo can't hear, and Ichirou just gives a shrug and a smile that would read as coy on anyone else.

Hagakure leans over and takes Juzo's bowl, ladling him a serving without breaking the conversation she's carrying with her son. Juzo almost sputters.

"I can serve myself," he protests, but Hagakure shakes her head.

"You weren't, though, were you, big guy?" She sets the bowl down in front of him. "Eat up."

He obeys as soon as the rest of the side dishes have made their way to him, and he's taken an appropriate amount of each on his own. It's really good, flavorful and well-seasoned, simmered for long enough that the tough cuts of beef are nice and tender.

"I grew the herbs," Yamada says proudly, leaning forward to meet Juzo's eye. "I have a little planter at home. My rosemary's been doing pretty well."

"It's good," Juzo says. "Uh, thanks."

He's not certain if it sounds as awkward as it feels, but Yamada beams that hamster grin og hers and goes back to eating, so it must be alright. He tucks back in, too, more than happy to listen as the others make conversation.

In fact, Juzo's ecstatic just to exist quietly here. It's not that he's even doing anything substantially different in this place— he's not taken a lover and flaunted him around before them, or even talked about it in any real way beyond short conversations with Yukimaru, but he wasn't quite as meticulous with how he spoke and held his body. His baseline was still pretty conventionally masculine, he thinks, and maybe the difference isn't as drastic as it feels, but sometimes he talks with his hands or goes to cover his mouth when he laughs and doesn't have to worry that anyone is going to sniff him out because of it.

It's not a huge change, all told, but he'd been wearing the mask for so long that he hadn't realized how heavy it was until he was able to let it slip, even just a bit. It's an unspeakable relief.

It doesn't hurt that the food itself is quite good, too. There's something to be said about the comfort of a home-cooked meal— Juzo's not had anything even approaching this since before the end of the world. It's certainly a lot better than what he usually prepares for himself. If Yukimaru hadn't invited him, Juzo probably would have subsisted on boiled vegetables and unseasoned tofu for the rest of his life and thought nothing of it.

He thinks back to the fake coat, currently stuffed between his mattress and box spring back at home. Maybe that, if nothing else, will be a good start to repaying him.

His bowl, as well as most of the others, are empty in short order. Everyone's full and there's even some left over, which feels… somehow more concrete a sign of a healing world than the abstract number of theoretical lives saved on a Future Foundation chalkboard somewhere. Maybe the sense of scale works against him in that regard; Juzo can't picture the entire surviving population of Tokyo, but he can see the seven other people around the table with him, picking up empty dishes and making quiet conversation as the evening winds down.

Juzo stands and takes the stack of bowls out of Ishimaru's hands, dropping them into the sink and running the tap to get the water warm. He'd been absent for most of the prep work, he reasons, so he can wash up. The others are happy to let him, it seems— further dishes and empty pots and pans are deposited before him one by one, sometimes with a smile or a pat on the shoulder or a slightly apologetic look (or entirely without emotion, in Haneyama's case. If he wasn't already familiar with her, he'd assume she was upset with him), until Yukimaru, who pulls a dish towel out of a drawer and starts drying. Juzo gives him a small, appreciative look, and Yukimaru returns one of his own.

When the water turns off and the last of the dishes are put away or set on the rack to dry, the apartment is much quieter. Haneyama, Yamada, and Ichirou had left, which… might make Juzo the only guest remaining? He's not certain whether Yukimaru and Ishimaru are still considered guests here, or if they've graduated to occasional residents. No one seems particularly bothered, at any rate; the Hagakures and Ishimaru are sat around the now-empty table, each holding a few playing cards. Ishimaru is scowling down at his hand while the Hagakures talk over each other, both attempting to explain the game they're playing, he's pretty sure, and neither doing so effectively.

He almost misses the warm chuckle Yukimaru gives, close beside him. Almost.

"I want no part of that, that's for damn sure," he mumbles, then looks up at Juzo. "Wanna go for a walk?"

Juzo would like to think that he almost refuses, says something like it's getting late and leaves, unobtrusive, sure not to take advantage of their hospitality and overstay his welcome, but he doesn't. He gives a short nod and a "sure," same as he does every time the evening has all but wound down completely and Yukimaru offers to stretch it out just a little bit longer.

The little creek they usually find themselves by is lit by too few streetlamps, little pockets of orange-gold breaking up the purple darkness of fading dusk. Yukimaru, wrapped in that smoking jacket he never smokes in, walks a little too close to the edge of the bank, one misstep from slipping into the still, sludgey water below, but he doesn't seem to care and Juzo has to convince himself not to, either.

It's unnaturally quiet. There are no crickets or summer cicadas— not here, not anymore, and maybe even not yet, if they're lucky. The streetlights buzz overhead, and he can hear the sound of vehicles and the occasional distant pop of violence, maybe gunfire or maybe something else, from further downtown. None of that is louder than Yukimaru's breathing or, truthfully, his own.

Gravel crunches underfoot, digging into dry dirt. Juzo wonders if this place was beautiful once, too, or if it's always been just a little south of shitty. He supposes he'll never know now.

"How's the museum coming along?" Yukimaru asks. His tone is completely even. Juzo hesitates anyway.

"Fine. Progressing as planned. No major incidents." He pauses, putting his hands into his pockets. "Ogami's room is, uh… pretty empty."

Yukimaru, to his surprise, huffs out a small, dry laugh at that. "Yeah. Thought it might be. You know they asked Kenshiro about it?"

Juzo's stomach drops. "…I thought they were only talking to family."

"Guess they decided he was close enough." When their path takes them through another little circle of light, Yukimaru's brow is furrowed, and the smile he gives is humorless. The overhead lighting makes his features look hollow. "He told them to talk to Asahina. Said he deferred to her in all aspects. He's— he's a way better man than me, because if Ishimaru made it out and Mondo didn't, I…"

Back in darkness again. Juzo can only just make out Yukimaru shaking his head. "Guess she didn't want her whole life on display, either."

That's very nearly just as strange of a realization as the previous. Juzo had assumed the survivors were a united front on the initiative— why else would they propose it at all?

"I'm sorry," Juzo says quietly, doubtless surprising the both of them. "If I had known they were making exceptions…"

"It's fine." He sighs. "I mean, it isn't, but I get it. Ain't exactly easy to explain without getting into the… y'know. All of it."

Juzo can't look at him anymore, staring instead at the sillhouette of a dead tree, branches twisting up into the darkening sky, as if trying to pull what few stars still shone through the smog and keep them where its leaves once were.

"Still, I should have… I don't know, said something."

"Wouldn't ask you to stick your neck out like that, Sakakura. Not when it's…" he waves his hand. "I mean, it's just not worth the risk."

He really can't look at Yukimaru now, focusing on his own feet, hands balling into fists in his pockets. If Yukimaru knew that Juzo was to blame for Owada dying at all, he'd almost certainly have a very different opinion on the matter. Especially if he knew that mitigating that same risk had been the pen he'd all but signed his death certificate with, glittery and pink and pressed into his hand by perfectly manicured fingers. The guilt settles so heavily in his chest that Juzo has to cough to try and dislodge some of it.

"…Sorry," Yukimaru says quietly after a moment, "kind of a bummer topic. Didn't mean to bring the mood down."

"It's alright," Juzo says, honestly, but even he knows it sounds like empty reassurance. Yukimaru glances at him for only a moment before turning his attention to the creek.

"So, uh…" Juzo clears his throat, "how long have you and Ichirou been… together?"

He's not even sure if that's the proper terminology or of it's called something different when two men are involved, and he's definitely not sure if the subject change even registers as the lighthearted topic it's meant to be. Yukimaru lets out a small, surprised laugh.

"Oh, uh, we aren't."

Juzo raises his eyebrows. "You might want to tell to stop giving you puppy dog eyes at the table, then. People might get the wrong idea."

Yukimaru huffs, but he's smiling a little. "I know how it looks, but it really ain't like that. We just…"

His steps grow slower for a while, then stop entirely. He looks up at the almost-empty sky, and try as Juzo might, he can't seem to see whatever it is he's staring at.

"I mean, he's dying. You know that," he says, voice quiet. "They gave him six months to live years ago, and even he can't beat those odds forever. He thinks I'll go off the deep end if I lose that again, and he's probably right, but it's…"

The breath he hears him take is deep and trembling, as are the next several. He clears his throat.

"Think I'll probably go off the deep end anyway, honestly. Dunno what he thinks he's saving me from. Ain't like losing him's gonna hurt any less if I didn't get to love him first, and I fuckin' know that, but I guess he's lookin' at it from the other side of the coin."

Juzo just nods. He's got nothing useful to say— it's not a situation that he, or anyone else he knows, has been in.

"I'm sorry," he settles on eventually. Again. It's even more trite the second time.

"Yeah, me too," he sighs, going back to walking. "It's, y'know, what it is, though. Can't force a guy to be with you. Just glad he'll still let me… care for him and shit. For now."

Juzo can admit that he sees where Ichirou's coming from, he supposes. He doesn't agree, but he can make sense of it. If Juzo loved someone he knew he was going to have to leave too early, he'd probably do the same— best not to get involved at all. Still, he can't help but think that if Yukimaru were the type who could just flip a switch and kill those feelings, he probably would have a long time ago. Juzo, at least, knows that's what he would do, if given the option; he's begged for years now to have Munakata ripped from his heart, but no god or spirit he's prayed to has ever managed to pull it off.

"I guess that's not really any better of a topic, huh?" Yukimaru says. "He's doin' alright. I mean, as much as he can be. He's not gonna live forever, but he's not gonna drop dead tomorrow, either. He's still walking on his better days, even."

"…That's good." It's better than he'd feared, at least, though he supposes he has no real business knowing Ichirou's medical information in the first place. Yukimaru lets out a long sigh.

"Listen, I know I'm not…" he scuffs his shoe against the dirt, dislodging a small rock in the process, "a great example, or anything. But people like us do get happy endings. Even now. Most of us, even. I'm… the exception, not the rule, or whatever. I don't want you thinkin' that it's, like, miserable and shitty and every guy you meet's always either dying or not loving you back. I just got shit luck, yeah? Ain't gonna be like that for you."

For one single, shining moment, Juzo could believe him. Maybe he wouldn't deserve it, and maybe he can't even think about thinking about Munakata in that context lest he get too attached to the idea and fool himself into believing it or admonish himself for thinking it at all, but if there was such a thing as karma or divine punishment, then Yukimaru wouldn't have suffered like this. Almost more than the state of the world at large, the guy is living proof that there can't be any sort of benevolent god watching over them, because there's no goddamn way Yukimaru, of all people, deserves what he's had.

It's impossible, though, in that sort of unquantifiable way that all imagined happy futures are. There's not a chance Juzo's saying any of that, either, even if the more stupid part of him thinks it might be worth it to try.

"That's what you're worried about?" he asks instead, incredulous. "My expectations?"

"I dunno, man, I had Daiya for this!" Yukimaru says, tossing his hands in the air. "I mean, his life wasn't perfect, either, but, like… he got out. Made a name for himself. Picked up whoever he felt like and didn't fuckin' have to worry about it, because he was the biggest and strongest guy around and everyone who ever met him fuckin' loved him. Made me feel like that was somethin' that could happen to real people like us and not just, like, the ones who get written about in books and shit. Woulda wanted that for you, too, but I'm… I'm just not him, y'know?"

He swallows. "I think you're doing fine."

Yukimaru huffs. "…Nice of you to say so."

"I mean it. I…"

Juzo looks up at the ink-black sky, at the yellow bulbs of streetlights cutting the darkness into ribbons, at the almost-dry creekbed, at the small amount of scraggly weeds that have managed to sprout through the dead dirt, at his own shoes. At anything but Yukimaru.

"It's meant a lot to me," he admits quietly. "I've never had a place where I could just… not worry about it. It's nice."

Yukimaru is quiet for long enough that Juzo considers turning on his heel, walking back to his car, and never looking him in the eye again. Eventually, though, he does let out a small chuckle.

"Glad I could help, then." His voice is soft, almost swallowed by the miniscule amount of background noise. Juzo nods, invisible in the almost-pitch darkness of a night that hasn't known the moon in a long time.

"I'm goin' home," he says unceremoniously, his throat tight. "Goodnight, Yukimaru."

"…Night, Sakakura," he says with a small wave. "See you later. Drive safe."

"Yeah."

Once he's back in the driver's seat of his car, he sits for a while in the silence, his eyes squeezed shut and his hands on the wheel. His breathing takes some time to even out completely, and his muscles take even longer to untense. Once it's over, he lets out a long sigh, buckles his seatbelt, and starts his engine.

The track is empty. Most of them are these days— the ones Enoshima's disciples haven't sunk their teeth into and thoroughly destroyed, at least. This, a dirt road half an hour outside of Tokyo's city limits, is untouched, surrounded on all sides by tall, dead trees.

The engine of Hagakure's borrowed motorbike purrs in idle, then cuts, and she kicks the stand down. She climbs off and pulls her helmet off her head, and Juzo follows suit shortly after, his legs feeling a little rubbery.

"Alright," she says, holding out a hand, the other in the pocket of her jeans. "Let's see it."

Juzo opens the leather messenger bag hanging by his side, and with an abundance of caution, pulls out the carefully folded replica of Owada's coat and hands it over. She picks it up by the shoulders, holding it aloft and watching it unfold, then turns it over to examine the backside, whistling lowly.

"Pretty damn good, Sakakura, I gotta admit. Sure as hell woulda fooled me."

"Thanks." He has to agree— it's a pretty damn good replica. Juzo has the sore and needle-punctured fingertips to speak to the work it took. The main problem is that it looks entirely too new, like it had been pulled from a box that morning and never worn, which Juzo supposes is the truth.

Hagakure pulls it on, tugging at the lapels. "A couple hours in the dirt and sun and it'll be a dead ringer, I'm sure."

"That's what I'm hoping for. Thanks again for helping out."

"Anything for Ruru," she says with a grin. "This whole thing is real sweet of you, y'know."

"It's not about sentimentality or whatever," he says. "He deserves to have it. Simple as that."

"Sure." She tugs at the sleeves, which are a little too long for her. "Sweet anyways. He doesn't know about this, right?"

"No. You're the only one I've told, and I'd prefer if it stayed that way."

"You don't have to worry about me, Zozo. My lips are sealed." She puts her helmet back on, then flips up the visor. "You gonna stay over here?"

"Yep. Got a lot to catch up on." That much is true— he had been letting a few of his more negligible responsibilities fall by the wayside over the past couple weeks in an effort to get the coat done as quickly as possible. However, the main reason he's staying well away is that the damn thing is scary and he'd had more than enough of it on his way over.

"Suit yourself," she says, flipping the visor back down and hopping onto the bike again. It roars to life, and no sooner is the kickstand up than she's off. She takes the first lap a little slow, but once she's got the course figured out, she's off like a bullet, black jacket and the streak of her pink ponytail fluttering wildly in the wind behind her.

Juzo watches for a while, arms crossed. He's never had a personal interest in motorcycles, and neither had Chisa or Munakata, so they had spent most of their time very far outside his sphere of knowledge. He learned a bit after the world ended— they were pretty decent transportation for his employees when cars wouldn't do, and one of the Remnants had a real thing about them (though that paled in comparison to the havoc the rest of his inventions wreaked), but that was it. Hagakure, though, she flies like a bat out of hell and moves like it's an extention of her own body. It's mesmerizing, and it's easy to see how Yukimaru fell in love with the things.

He wonders if Owada or his brother rode like this. He'd only ever seen Owada on the back of a bike at the bitter end, obviously, and he'd never seen his brother, but he imagines it was something spectacular; twin stars speeding down a dark road, cutting up the night with their headlights, moving like wildfire. Yukimaru, too, maybe, even if he never got that same veneration he gave them for it.

Or maybe they drove slow on the highways and made nuisances of themselves. Both, probably, from what Juzo knows of biker gang culture. To his own surprise, that doesn't really make much of a difference in his opinion of them.

Ideally, he'd have some sort of bench to sit and fill out paperwork at, but a walk around the perimeter reveals no such luck. He resigns himself to sitting on the dead grass, a clipboard and paper in his lap.

He's writing for what is just as likely hours as minutes for how mind-numbing the work is. Luckily, he's able to get through most of it by the time the sound of the engine, which had faded to white noise, quiets slightly, idling again right in front of him.

"Come on," Hagakure calls, waving him over. "One lap. Promise you'll like it."

Juzo taps his pen against the clipboard. "…Just one?"

"Just one."

After another moment's hesitation, he nods, puts his papers back into his bag, picks up his helmet, and stands.

"You're gonna want to hang on tight," she says over her shoulder as he climbs on. He nods, but hovers his hands uncertainly, not sure where is appropriate to hold. Hagakure lets out a huff that Juzo can hear even through their helmets and over the rumble of the engine, grabs his wrists, and wraps his arms around her waist, patting his forearm with finality once she's decided he's secure.

"Alright," she says, and that's all the warning Juzo gets before they're off. He squeezes his eyes shut and his arms tighten around her immediately, heart pounding in his ears. Even through his helmet, he can hear the rushing wind.

It takes him a few seconds of shallow breathing to work up the nerve to crack an eye open. The landscape is a blur or gray and red, and they're kicking up a lot of dust behind them. It's hardly the most scenic ride— that's not something that even really exists anymore— but everything is passing by so quickly that it hardly matters. The only thing that feels real and solid is the motorcycle beneath them and Hagakure herself.

It is thrilling, he has to admit. Some of the terror is dampened by the fact that she's a medical professional who knows what the risks are, but just a bit of it stays. Just enough. The adrenaline of the speed is intoxicating, and Juzo even manages to unstick himself from her back and survey the open road around them.

The world is so much different in high gear. A little less awful, a little less soul-crushing. It's easy to see how someone could get addicted.

The lap is over too soon, and Juzo sighs as they pull back in front of the unofficial starting line. He drops his arms, and Hiroko turns back to him.

"Pretty good, huh?"

"…Yeah," he admits, still a little dazed. "Don't think I could do it myself."

"No one does the first couple times," she reassures. "I'll keep it slow on the way home."

"Thanks." If his legs were wobbly when he'd stood before, he's on the brink of collapse now. It takes some effort to collect his bag and stretch.

Hiroko takes the coat off and admires it before handing it over. "Not too bad, huh?"

"No, that's…" He holds it up himself. It's significantly more worn and dusty than it had been that morning. Maybe not enough to fake years of constant wear, but pretty damn close. "This is perfect. Thank you."

"Like I said, anything for Ruru." She shrugs. "Nice to be back in the saddle again, anyways. Reminds me of when I was younger. Except, y'know, no baby to try and wrangle."

He folds the jacket carefully and puts it back into his bag. "Glad I could help, then."

He can't see her face, but he sees the small shake of laughter in her shoulders and the way she shakes her head, and that's enough to picture the small, affectionate look she gives.

Kirigiri had been right— Juzo isn't above it. In fact, a few nights before the museum is set to opem to the public, he's on shift to guard Yamada and Kuwata's exhibits from 8pm to midnight. Miyu is on shift, too, at her own insistence, guarding Ishimaru and Ogami's room, despite her stitches only being somewhat healed and her prosthesis still in the process of being built. She says she's fine in a wheelchair, and Juzo trusts her to know her own limits.

It'll be a quiet night, anyway. She'll be gone an hour and a half after Juzo, and someone new will come to take her place, and by the time the clock rolls over he'll be surrounded by an entirely different group of people than the ones he entered with. That fact makes no difference, either, but he's very aware of it.

The music coming from Kuwata's room grows a little grating rather quickly. It's quiet, thankfully, but there's only so much of The Sex Pistols one can endure at any volume. Ironically, the irritation is a little grounding; it's something to focus his attention on instead of the anxiety that mounts with every passing minute.

Directly on the other side of the cavernous central chamber are Ogami and Owada's rooms, one almost empty and one entirely too full. He's watching them, and at some point someone's going to notice him watching— or, that's the intention, at least. He can just barely see Owada's coat through the doorframe, purple silk catching the white light and shining in a sea of dark gang memorobilia.

He can't pretend he knew Owada, but unlike most of the people in charge of this place, he's not trying to. Still, he can't help but think it had been a poor choice; symolism aside, Owada seemed like a colorful guy. The uniforms were black and white, but that was it, and even then not really. He'd felt that violet and gold beneath his fingertips, meticulously placed every stitch, ripped out and re-stitched whatever came out crooked or crooked in the wrong way, and that felt a lot more meaningful than whatever it happened to be woven into.

Not that he has a say in what does and doesn't constitute meaning in Owada's absence. Then again, neither does anyone else whose opinion got heard.

The guard changes out, one by one, and Juzo's heart beats a little faster with every new face he sees. Eventually, his replacement arrives, bowing his head politely as he approaches his station.

"Good evening, Sakakura, sir," he greets. "Anything to report?"

"Quiet night so far. Here's hoping it stays that way." He nods at the room across from him. "Think something's off in Owada's exhibit. I'm gonna fix it before heading out."

"Of course," he says with another nod, stepping into the position Juzo vacates without fanfare.

His footsteps echo in the empty hall as he crosses the room, and he's vaguely aware that everyone in attendance is looking in his direction. No one says anything or tries to stop him, though— no one even says anything as he crosses the threshold into Owada's adumbration.

He inspects the coat— he'd only really been intending to give it a once-over, mostly for the sake of appearances, but finds himself lost in the details. There's a small amount of fraying at the cuffs of the sleeves, just barely a nick or two, and Juzo regrets his inability to mimic that. In fact, if anything gives him away, it'll be that— he cannot recreate that lived-in look without living in it, and there are a thousand reasons that isn't feasible. Hopefully, a few hours spent fluttering in in the sun on Hagakure's back will be good enough.

The craftsmanship is what catches his eye the most, however. He'd been staring at photographs of the embroidery for hours upon hours, but it's so much different to see it in person. It's art, complete with the patience and steady hand required, and Juzo regrets that part of Owada got lost somewhere.

He nods to no one, then, slowly, as if it were made of tissue paper, slides the coat off of the mannequin's shoulders. He drapes it over his arm, careful not to let it drag along the floor, and turns back around.

No one tries to stop him this time, either. He's able to make it back out into the foyer and to the door of the storage room without incident. As expected, his card and fingerprint work just fine.

Everything he's doing here is allowed and fine and commonplace. He repeats that to himself a few times before entering.

The intention had been to scan the room for cameras, find some way around them if neccessary, switch the coats, return the decoy, and leave. It should have been simple.

That all goes out the window when he spots Asahina slumped over on the floor, dressed in a tee shirt and basketball shorts with her hair undone. She's surrounded by gis, belts, no small amount of preserved flowers, and sits among a mountain of what he can only imagine are the personal affects of Ogami that she didn't allow to be displayed. She blinks up at him— her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, and he's certain he mirrors the wide-eyed terror she looks at him with.

"What are you doing in here?" she asks, her voice watery. "Is that Mondo's jacket?"

His mouth is dry. He tries in vain to swallow. "I, uh, think something's wrong with it."

She laughs bitterly. "Yeah, obviously something's wrong. Someone died in it."

"Right." He shifts his weight. "Didn't mean to interrupt."

"Whatever." She leans back, her head hitting the wall. "This whole museum thing is stupid, anyway."

Juzo chews on his lip, weighing his options. He could return the jacket and try to swap it out another day, but that would require returning. Even if he staffs the building completely differently so no one notices the repeat attempt, he would still be on the schedule twice in a week, and that alone is suspicious. This place will only be under further and further scrutiny as opening day approaches. Juzo hadn't even checked to see if card swipes were logged, and he's feeling pretty fucking stupid for it right now.

He swallows. Slowly, far away from anything that might have once been Ogami's, Juzo steps toward the wall and presses his back to it, sliding to the floor near-ish to her. She gives him a confused look that he only sees out of the corner of his eye, focusing mostly on folding the coat with every ounce of reverence it deserves and laying it on his lap.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "Real fuckin' stupid."

He can feel her eyes on him. He hopes he's exuding whatever it is she's hoping to find.

"Kyoko said you were against the whole thing," she says quietly. "Seemed like she really wanted to find out why for a long time, but then she just kinda… dropped it."

"She did?" It's more of a relief than it should be in the moment.

"Yeah." She gives him a look that he can't decipher. "Never known her to just give up like that, y'know."

His hands fall to his side, balling into fists against the concrete floor. He looks to the ceiling, at the dim, greenish lights, and squeezes his eyes closed.

"Didn't think it was fair," he grits out. "To Yukimaru pretty specifically."

Asahina is quiet for a moment. Something shifts audibly against the ground, but he's not opening his eyes to find out what it is.

"…That's for him, huh?" she asks, her voice quiet. Juzo nods.

"Yeah." He swallows. "We're friends."

"Did you take anything else?"

He shakes his head. "Just the coat."

"You should've."

He chuckles humorlessly. "That'd be a bit of a shit show."

"Who cares? Take everything. They're gonna notice the jacket's gone, anyway."

"I, uh, made a replacement, actually." When he opens his eyes, she's staring at him, half incredulous and half curious.

"Can I see?" She asks. Juzo nods, pulling open the bag at his side and pulling out the face. She accepts it cautiously, turning it over in her hands.

"I'm not really…" he clears his throat. "I don't sew. And the finer details were mostly guesswork."

"Coulda fooled me," she mumbles, running her fingers softly over the embroidery. "How long did this even take?"

"…I dunno. Long time."

She examines it for a while longer, occasionally glancing back at the real one in Juzo's lap. Juzo feels his neck begin to heat up from the scrutiny.

"…You're a good friend," she says finally, handing it back.

"Got a lot of making up to do," he says, surprised by his own earnestness. Asahina, luckily, doesn't ask any questions about that. She just gives a short nod.

"Tell him I say hi, okay? We miss him in the Thirteenth Division."

"Will do," he says, delicately tucking the real jacket into his bag. "You're not getting him back, though."

Asahina, unexpectedly, laughs. "Yeah. Figured you wouldn't be letting him go."

Juzo smiles at that. It's small and a little awkward, but it's genuine, and Asahina returns it, tears still shining on her cheeks.

When he gets up, it's with every intention to leave while he still has the chance, but he pauses.

"You drive here?" he asks. Her brow furrows, but she slowly nods. "Good. If you can find something to put this all in, I'll help you load it into your car."

She blinks at him. "I… I don't think I'm supposed to do that."

"Probably not," he shrugs. "Fuck 'em, though, right?"

She stares at him for another long moment, then breaks out into a face-splitting smile. "Yeah. Fuck 'em."

He nods one more time before taking his exit, back into the photograph-covered foyer. Hundreds, if not thousands, of pictures of Hope's Peak Academy students watch as he makes his way back into the main chamber, decoy coat draped over his arm. He likes to think that the few Owadas among them would approve, but he wouldn't know.

No one spares him more than a glance as he returns the coat to Owada's room. He's breathing just a little bit easier, but doesn't let his guard down quite yet, attention divided between the five guards. Carefully, he pulls the garment up over the mannequin's arms, tugs at the ends until he feels like it drapes correctly, perhaps a little more meticulous than he needs to be, then stands back to examine his handiwork, arms crossed over his chest.

It's pretty damn close. He's spent entirely too long staring at the thing to make an unbiased judgement, but he doesn't think anyone would notice the difference— the late rightful owner and the man who still loves him notwithstanding.

He surveys the room for one more long moment, taking in everything that won't make it home and hoping he made the right choice, then waves at the guards as he leaves, receiving a few scattered nods in response. No one so much as asks what he'd supposedly fixed. He'd almost be upset with them if the plan hadn't hinged pretty heavily on this exact response; maybe he'll send out an e-mail about staying vigilant even around trusted parties once he's not exploiting that oversight for his own gain.

Juzo's bag feels heavy and warm at his side as he swipes his card, scans his thumb, and steps back into the storage room, as if everything in the universe had its eyes turned to its contents. Asahina has managed to locate a set of plastic bins, and is most of the way through loading them up. Juzo hesitates, but at her small nod, delicately begins helping her pack.

It's silent save the occasional sniffle. That's for the best— Juzo doesn't think he'll be able to trust his voice until the coat is in Yukimaru's hands, and Asahina doesn't seem especially keen on small talk, either. She carries two of the large boxes, and he takes the third, handling the doors for her.

The guards outside don't stop them, either. One of them gives a bit of a quizzical look, but Juzo ignores her and follows Asahina to her car. It's dark— there are no streetlights here, unlike the road near Yukimaru's little creek, so they rely on the small amount of light that spills from the museum windows and security's sweeping flashlights to see by. Maybe they'll solve that by opening day or maybe they won't— Juzo's not going to step foot in the place again after tonight if he can avoid it, so he doesn't care.

Rather than set the boxes on the ground to open the trunk, Asahina stacks them atop the one Juzo is already holding. They obscure what small amount of vision he had completely, so he stands stock-still, listening for orders or approaching danger, but most of his attention still lingers on the weight of his bag at his side.

Asahina deposits one box in the trunk, then the second, then takes the third with a soft grin he can only just make out in the darkness.

She sets the final box down, closes the trunk, and lingers with her fingertips on the back of the car. Then, after a moment, she steps to Juzo and wraps her ams tightly around his middle, breathing unsteadily.

"Thank you," she mumbles into his shirt. "He's gonna be so happy."

Slowly, he reaches up to rest a hand on the top of her head. "…Yeah."

She lingers for a moment, and he lets her stay for as long as she needs. He's never been much of a comforting presence, but he can be a warm body whenever needs dictate.

Eventually, she peels herself away, rubbing her eyes one more time.

"Get home safe," he offers quietly, and she nods.

"Yeah. You too, Sakakura. I'll see you around, okay?"

He watches her until she's climbed into the driver's seat and buckled herself in. He slips his hand into his bag, re-confirming that the coat is still inside by the feel of the embroidery under his fingertips, and walks back to his own car.

The bag is tossed gently onto the passenger seat, and Juzo takes a moment to remember to breathe. The difficult part is over. No one noticed the swap. He just needs to make it home, and in the morning, he can return the thing to Yukimaru and wash his hands of the whole ordeal.

The passenger side door opens, and Juzo, on instinct, snatches his bag away before even raising his hands to defend himself, then freezes with it held aloft.

The man climbs into the passenger seat and closes the door with a deafeaning finality. Even in the almost-pitch black, Juzo would recognize Munakata anywhere.

He forces his breathing to be even, slowly lowering the bag onto his lap, not loosening his grip on it even slightly. Munakata makes unwavering eye contact, his expression cold and unreadable.

"…You aren't supposed to be here," Juzo chokes out eventually, a bead of cold sweat rolling down his neck. He doesn't know, he reminds himself. There's no possible way he knows. No one knows.

"Yukizome had concerns." His tone is disconcertingly even. "She said you had been fighting with Yukimaru again."

"We had a… disagreement, I guess, yeah," he admits. "That was weeks ago, though."

"About—" he inclines his head, just slightly, toward the building behind them, "-this?"

He swallows thickly. It's loud in the close, silent quarters. "Kind of."

"Right." Munakata turns to look out the front window. "What am I going to find if I search your bag right now?"

Any relief that may have been brought upon by the breaking of eye contact is immediately dwarfed by panic. All the air is quickly sucked from the cabin, and Juzo can feel his own thundering heartbeat in his throat. Munakata can surely hear it.

"You don't understand," he says, voice small.

"Enlighten me, then."

"It's—" he swallows, "Yukimaru, he— the guy's in love with him. Always has been. And that's not— that's not conjecture or anything, he'll tell you himself if you ask. He'll tell anyone. And this is… surely you get that this is fuckin' evil for him, right?"

There's a growing desperation in his tone that even he recognizes. He can't stop it, though, grip tightening even further on the bag, his hands trembling with the effort.

Luckily, Munakata speaks again before Juzo can continue rambling. His voice is… soft. Contemplative, maybe, if Juzo could dare to guess.

"…I was uninformed." His hands curl into fists on his lap. "I… yes, I imagine that would be difficult."

Juzo does not relax. In fact, when Munakata turns back to look at him, his eyebrows knitting together just slightly, he tenses further.

"I owe you an apology," he says quietly, and Juzo hopes the shock doesn't show too obviously on his face. "I have been… rather single-minded about this whole project. I told you that I valued your opinion, then went to every length to convince you that it was wrong. I believe…"

He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing slowly, then opens them again. "You were right, Juzo. I don't believe I would be able to handle it if those exhibits were made in effigy to you, and I had no choice but to watch from a distance as they were built."

Juzo has to remember to breathe for an entirely new reason. Every thought that comes to mind, he swiftly crushes underfoot, but it doesn't matter; his mind goes completely blank anyway when Kyosuke reaches over and wraps his cold, pale fingers around Juzo's palm, gently coaxing it from where it strangles his bag, and holds it.

"Please forgive me, I…" he chuckles, shaking his head slightly, silver-white strands of hair falling into his eyes. "It was the thought of losing you both, I think, that made me so unwilling to listen. It's a fate that has befallen so, so many, to live beyond the people they love, and yet I couldn't confront it. It is ill-befitting a leader of the Future Foundation, to look away from that despair in favor of his own comfort."

He looks Juzo in the eye again. "I was a fool. Trust that I will ensure that this will not happen again."

Juzo nods slowly. It takes a few tries to get his voice to work, and when it does, it's thin and raspy. "It's okay. I- I forgive you. Thanks."

Kyosuke smiles again, so softly it makes Juzo feel as though his heart is being wrung like a soapy dishrag, and squeezes his hand before letting go, reaching into his coat pocket.

"Please pass on my apologies to Yukimaru, as well," he says, pulling out a small stack of envelopes, tied together with twine, and handing them over to Juzo with a small nod of his head. "These were found in Owada's room during the initial reclamation mission. Even then, I thought it would have been… ghoulish to open them in his absence."

Juzo takes them. On the letter at the top of the stack, scrawled in an unsteady hand, is Yukimaru's name.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "Thanks."

He opens his bag to carefully place the letters somewhere they won't be crushed. There's no way to do that while concealing the coat, so he doesn't bother trying, figuring that Kyosuke would find out eventually, anyway. To his surprise, he hears him chuckle, just a little bit.

"Of course." When Juzo meets his eye again, Kyosuke is still smiling. He hasn't seen him grin this much in years. "Am I correct in assuming that you've already taken the necessary precautions to ensure this won't be missed?"

Despite himself, Juzo smiles, too. "Sure did. God willing."

"I expect no less of you." He nods once. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

"Hey, uh—" Juzo says, reaching out to grab his wrist before he can think about it and long before he can stop himself. Kyosuke, obediently, pauses, his pale eyes going slightly wide. "Maybe we should make, um. Digital copies of everything. Especially the paper documents."

Kyosuke softens. "Certainly. I would suggest you speak to Kirigiri about it, since I was never here."

Juzo nods, dropping his wrist. Kyosuke lingers for just another moment, just long enough for Juzo to truly take him in, before exiting the car, leaving the cabin unceremoniously.

It takes a long time to catch his breath again, his hands around the wheel and the bag heavy in his lap. The air smells like him, and he can still almost feel his fingers wrapped around his hand when he lets his mind wander for too long.

Eventually, he's able to put his key in the ignition and start his engine, car headlights illuminating one small strip of ruined Tokyo. His radio reads 02:37, but, strangely, he isn't tired at all as he pulls out into the road and begins the drive home.

After just enough sleep to ensure that he wouldn't crash the car on the way over, Juzo makes it to Yukimaru and Ishimaru's apartment a little after 8:00 in the morning. He's still a little exhausted, but he's pushed through a lot worse, and he doesn't want to make Yukimaru wait a moment longer than he has to, knowingly or not.

He knocks on the door, then steps back, one hand in his pocket and the other resting awkwardly over his bag. He waits long enough that he's half-convinced no one's coming, but eventually, the door creaks open to reveal Ishimaru, blinking hard, dressed in a matching blue pajama set.

"…Sakakura," he says, his voice gravelly. "Good morning. What do you need?"

"Just wanna talk to Yukimaru. Won't be long."

"I'll get him," he sighs, opening the door wider and standing aside. Juzo obediently enters, closing the door behind him as Ishimaru disappears down the hallway. He rocks back and forth in the small entryway for a moment, then eventually takes off his shoes even though he'd told himself he wouldn't be there long enough to bother.

When he finally gets to the apartment's small living room, Yukimaru is just emerging from his bedroom, stretching his arms above his head. He's wearing a tee shirt that is several sizes too large for him, dark brown with the faded graphic of a white dog on the front, and a much more well-fitting pair of sweatpants. He, too, blinks hard at Juzo.

"Hey," he mumbles, scratching his chest. "G'mornin'. Want a coffee?"

"I'm alright." He anxiously fiddles with the strap of his bag.

"Right, you don't drink the stuff." He looks in the direction of the kitchen, eyebrows furrowing. "I could, uh… boil some water."

"It's fine." If he weren't so anxious, he'd be amused. "Listen, I don't have long."

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry." Yukimaru faces him again. "What's up?"

Juzo, try as he might, is unable to string words together in any order that resembles coherence. After a few failed attempts to think of something to say, he lets out a small huff, opens his bag, delicately extracts the coat, and hands it over wordlessly.

Yukimaru looks from it to him a few times, eyes wide, any hint of tiredness gone in an instant. With trembling hands, he runs his fingers gently over the fabric, just the barest hint of touch, as if to test if it's real.

He takes it from Juzo's hands uncertainly, unfolding it and holding it at arm's length. After a long moment of that, he turns over the left lapel, brow furrowing for a moment. Juzo is just barely close enough to see what he's looking for— stitched into the lining with thin golden thread, barely as big as his own palm, is a design, completely invisible from the exterior of the garment. A dog and a tiger chase each other in a circle, both with wide grins on their animal faces. Yukimaru runs his fingers gently over it, a choked sound erupting from his throat.

"This is—" he starts, then takes a shaky inhale, "this is his. How the fuck did you…?"

Juzo shrugs. "Long story. They won't be looking for it, though."

"Yeah," he chokes out. "Okay. Yeah."

"These, uh, these are for you, too," he says, handing over the stack of letters. "They found 'em in his room."

Yukimaru carefully drapes the jacket over one shoulder, his arm holding it in a tight embrace, and accepts the letters. He badly stifles a sob, buring his face in the crook of his elbow.

"That fucking bastard," he says, smiling even as a tear rolls down his cheek and drips from his chin. "He said he'd write."

Juzo stuffs his hands back into his pockets. "…Sorry it took so long."

"Don't apologize, asshole," Yukimaru says quickly. "Without you, I wouldn't— I couldn't have—"

A few more sobs wrack his body, and he doesn't remove his arm. "Fuck. Thank you, Sakakura."

"It was nothing," he says, feeling his shoulders tense. Beneath the veneer of awkwardness, though, he feels relieved. Happy, even, that he was able to make a real, tangible difference, even to one person. So much of the Future Foundation's efforts are represented in scales so large they feel unreal; lives saved as one massive, collective item instead of a multitude of individual ones. It's easy to get lost in it.

Or maybe it's just been a long time since Juzo's been able to do anything meaningfully kind for someone else. He's had too little sleep to tell, and probably won't care to decide once he's more rested, anyway.

"It's everything," Yukimaru says anyway, shaking his head. "I'll— I'll find some way to pay you back, I swear."

"You don't owe me anything. It's fine."

"Like hell I don't." Yukimaru drops his arm. There's just a bit of residual eyeliner, presumably from the day before, running down his cheeks "I mean it, Sakakura. Whatever you need, whenever you need it, yeah?"

Juzo swallows thickly, then nods. "…Okay. Yeah."

He smiles, wider than Juzo's seen him smile outside of those polaroids. "Good."

His hands curl into fists in his pockets, and he takes a step toward the entryway. "Listen, I… I gotta go."

"Sure. Yeah. 'Course." Yukimaru nods at the door, still grinning. "Don't let me keep you."

Juzo pulls his shoes on more quickly than he can ever remember doing before, hand on the doorknob in moments, but pauses anyway.

"Hey, uh, if you have any interest in the grand opening…" he says, and Yukimaru laughs, his voice watery.

"Fuck no."

Juzo smiles a little. "Yeah, thought not. Figured I'd ask."

He leaves without any further fanfare. When he's halfway down the hallway, he thinks he can hear muffled voices coming from behind the door, but it could be his imagination.

"So," Juzo says as they exit into the warm courtyard, reveling in what passes for sunlight these days, "how'd it look?"

"Pretty spot on," Yukimaru admits. "You really did all that yourself?"

"Yeah." There's a small bench on the edge of the courtyard, facing the large metal statue in the center, that Juzo settles down onto. Yukimaru joins him, leaning back onto the wood. "Didn't realize how long those things take."

"Well, that's part of it, yeah?" Yukimaru says, lacing his fingers behind his head. "The soul of a man is created under adversity. If you can't sit down and sew a uniform for a few hours, how the hell are you gonna be loyal to a creed like that?"

"I guess I can see it." If that's what makes the soul of a man, then Yukimaru's a lot more man than half the goddamn foundation. He almost regrets not snatching him from the Thirteenth earlier.

"…Didn't hurt as much as I thought it would, either," Yukimaru says quietly. "Figured it'd, y'know, kinda kill me. And, I mean, it did a little, but it's like… whoever they were talking about in there wasn't Mondo. He was, like, some meaner, scarier guy wearing his skin."

"You don't think Owada was mean and scary?" He's mostly teasing, and Yukimaru scoffs.

"No. I mean, he could be, but… I dunno." He drops his hands into his lap. "Hard to look at him and not still see the skinny middle school kid from the year above me sometimes."

"I get that." Sometimes, when he sees Kyosuke, he's still the chubby, loudly opinionated kid he fell in love with in his first semester at Hope's Peak, too, and not the fearsome second in command of the organization trying to save the world. "…Statue was a surprise to me, too, by the way. Would've warned you if I knew."

The courtyard is nice, and it will be a lot nicer once plant life returns to the world. Right now, there's only tilled dirt underfoot— no grass, and the trees remain bare and scraggly. In the center, shining in the muted sunlight, is the visage of every late member of the 78th class, sitting side by side and all wearing some variation of appropriate smiles. Owada, notably, has his arm around Ishimaru's shoulders, who half-leans on his chest and looks up at him with a sort of unbridled adoration that he would have thought impossible to capture in bronze. Owada looks back at him, his gaze soft, a shy half-smile on his lips.

It's a fine compromise for their rooms not being together, Juzo supposes, and something twists in his chest at the sight of them. It's not a love he'd ever imagined being so openly celebrated.

"Nah," Yukimaru says softly, gazing at the statue with his head cocked slightly to the side and a soft expression on his face. "It's cool. I like it. That feels a lot more like him to me."

And Juzo supposes he understands that, too.

The wind quietly whistles through the small area. A few people wander in and out of the museum doors, some talking quietly amongst themselves, some silently reverent. A few glances are spared for the statue, but no one seems to pay the two of them any mind.

"…Haven't read the letters yet," Yukimaru admits quietly. "Think I'm scared to find out what he wrote to me right at the end."

Juzo nods. "If I were in your shoes, I don't think I ever would."

"I might not. I dunno." He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. "Haven't decided."

"It's not like they're going anywhere either way," Juzo says with a shrug. "And if you decide you want me there when you do, you know where to find me. No pressure."

Yukimaru looks up at him, huffs out a small laugh, and leans over just enough to softly bump his shoulder with the top of his head before straightening again. "Thanks."

Juzo hesitates for a moment, then reaches up to ruffle his hair. The strands are surprisingly silky under his touch— most of the messiness must be more the result of an unfortunate haircut and less of bleach damage, as he'd assumed.

"No problem," he says, dropping his hand again.

They sit in silence for a little while longer. Juzo closes his eyes and leans his head back, listening to the distant sound of the world's unending conflict, temporarily far, far away from the two of them, and only opens them when he hears Yukimaru stand.

"Guess we'd better get back to work, huh?" he says. Juzo nods.

"Right."

"Hey, next time, I'll drive, yeah?"

Juzo rolls his eyes. "Fuck no."

Yukimaru groans and starts to argue, but Juzo just shakes his head and chuckles, pulling his car keys from his pocket.