Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They’ve been having these talks for a while now. When they did, they always trailed along the beachfront, around sunset, their feet leaving tracks in the sand. Makoto always shrugged off his shoes, having learned his lesson the first time when the tide submerged them underwater, leaving his socks soaked, while Junko kept on her heels—an impractical choice, really, but Junko was nothing if not eccentric.

These talks were Makoto’s idea. Junko never particularly liked them, but saying never liked was perhaps rather reductive in what she truly felt.

Despite her lack of interest in Makoto’s proselytizing on hope and love and blah blah blah, she found herself… enjoying these conversations, somewhat. Not in the way Makoto wanted, of course, she would never give him the satisfaction, but there was something to the mundaneness and repetitiveness of Makoto’s steadfast and unwavering belief in hope that Junko was almost fascinated.

Almost.

He was still boring, after all. She simply found his patheticness to be something of interest.

She told him as much, multiple times.

“A-ah,” Makoto says, flushing as she huffs. “I’m sorry if I’m not of interest… I don’t really have much to talk to you about, anyway.”

“Because you’re not special,” Junko says. “We both know that already, raffle boy, so why keep wasting my time?”

“I don’t think it’s a waste of time to spend a moment with a friend. Besides… if you really hated me, you would stop having these talks, right?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Naegi,” Junko sneers. “I simply have nothing better to do.”

Despite her harsh words, he laughs lightly. It frustrates her to no end, the degree of his strength—it seems the more she tries to break him down, the stronger he gets when he picks himself back up. He used to flinch at her insults, but now he can do no more than smile and laugh, as if telling her, ‘You don’t scare me’. There were still moments, of course, when she manages to get him to break, to lapse in his hopeful demeanor, but they were so few and far between and they got even farther the longer they spend together.

As the frustration bubbles up in her chest, she feels the familiar taste of uselessness, of failure, of despair, and she relishes in it, however fleeting it may be. Her heart skips a beat, flushing, and she looks away.

“But if you were really bored, you would leave by now,” He says. “You always said boredom and despair weren’t the same thing, and boredom doesn’t make you feel despair, so surely I’m doing something right…?” Makoto pauses, as if pondering. “...wrong? I can’t really tell with you.”

“That’s the point, Naegi-kun!” She grins, twirling the handle of the parasol in her hands. She jumps in front of Makoto, her smile wide and playful. “I’m a puzzle you can never solve! Doesn’t the thought of that make you want to fall to your knees?”

“No, it just makes you more interesting,” He says. His smile was ever present. Junko analyzes it quickly—no more than a split second, really—and detects none of the malice she has seen in the sleazy smiles directed her way by most of the men in her life. (Yasuke, of course, was the exception, but his smiles were few and far-between, each one a rarity in their own right.)

“Haaaaah? Oh Naegi, you’re sooooooo stupid,” She says. “Putting all your faith into someone as hopeless as me… don’t you know it’ll never work?”

“I won’t know if I don’t try, right?”

At his naivety, she simply giggles. “I can’t wait to see the look on your face when you realize all your efforts are for nothing, Naegi-kun—especially since I keep telling you!”

“I mean,” Makoto says. “If my efforts have done nothing to help Enoshima-san–that doesn’t mean I failed. I… don’t see myself as your savior, Junko.”

Junko grows quiet.

Makoto flushes. “Ah–sorry, are we not on those terms yet? It’s just that–you call me by my name all the time, so I—”

“I don’t care what you call me, Ma-ko-to—” She hums, clinging to his arm. “It’s cute.”

“I-it is?”

“It really isn’t, you look fuckin’ dumb, but–” Her nails dig into his skin as she offers him a wicked wide grin. “–lying to you is fun.”

Makoto deflates. “O-oh.”

That seems to get to him.

He falls silent, seeming to notice the flash of delight in her eyes. He appears dismayed, if the twitch of his lips and his brow were any indication. This only makes her smile widen. Ah, the cycle of self-doubt and anxiety—it was hardly the most sophisticated of despairs, but it’ll have to do.

Every moment of upset from him was like nectar to her. It was sickly sweet ambrosia, and she wanted more of it, more of his sadness, his hurt, his misery—the less he gave it to her the more she yearned for it like a drug. But every moment of upset was temporary, and hardly anything—like a droplet of water that drips into the chapped lips of a man dying of thirst.

So stingy, Naegi-kun, she thinks. Playing hard to get… I’m like a jilted lover desperate for your affection!

“Junko,” He starts.

She does not acknowledge him, but he continues anyway.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“No, you may not,” Junko says, but she knows he will ask anyway.

“Are you still going to destroy the world?”

She pauses.

“Hm? Is that what you’re worried about? You know it’ll be all the more fun for me if I don’t give you an answer, right?”

“Yeah, but…” Makoto sighs, scratching the back of his head. “I’m just… concerned, is all.”

“Aw, worried that little ol’ me is going to tear this world asunder to a point it becomes oh so unrecognizable?”

“I mean, that’s definitely cause for concern, but, ah–” He bites his lip. “Kyoko has been asking about you a lot, and I think she’s onto you.”

Oh? Interesting.

“Have you gone snitching to your little girlfriend yet, then?” Judging by his tone of voice, she already knows the answer. And she was eager to claw out more details, to look into his very being with simply her eyes, to read every single juicy detail about his mind and laugh at his simplicity.

“No,” He says, entirely predictably. She grins.

“What’ll happen when she realizes you’ve been lying for me?”

“She’ll be upset,” He admits. He knows what she will say next, she knows that he knows. She’ll push, and prod, and make him doubt—this has been the constant for them in their sunset walks, her mind games that he was only recently learning to weave through and navigate. It was what made him so infuriating as of late. In getting closer to him, she’s risked herself becoming predictable.

How useless…!

(Just the thought of it made her knees buckle.)

“But—“ He continues, and she already knows he’ll turn this around, cling to this filthy hope that Kirigiri will be understanding. “I guess I’m banking my luck on something.”

Now that was unexpected. Junko quirks her brow. “Oh?”

His eyes are big, round, and oh so innocent. Makoto’s voice is gentle as he speaks.

“You.”

An entirely expected answer. Junko’s interest deflates instantly.

“Boring.”

“I know,” Makoto sighs. “You always let me know.”

“How much will you keep clinging to hope?” She presents the question innocently, her tone lacking the sort of malice and disdain she frequently wove into her words. Makoto seemed uneasy, as he always was, but most especially when she was like this, when her words were dull and you can never tell if her curiosity is piqued.

It was one of the reasons why Junko was certain Makoto would never let himself get too close. Junko was knives, shattered pieces of glass glued together by the sticky sap of hurt and loss, and trying to pry her shards apart to repair the sculpture she could have been would only hurt whoever tried. She was dangerous, an animal whose breath ghosted its breath against his neck, all too eager to dig into his flesh and tear him apart. And a myriad of more metaphors, blah blah, blah.

“Is it really clinging…?” He asks her.

“Oh, but of course, Makoto dear,” Junko drawls. Her hand reaches up to hold his cheek, gently moving his face to meet her eyes. Unease, yes, he was certainly feeling. Uncertainty. Makoto never had the best self-esteem, and despite his insecurities waning over the last year they have been classmates, that crippling sense of inferiority never truly went away. It was all too easy to dig her claws into it, to pry out something darker.

Makoto looks back into her eyes. The uncertainty in his own eyes makes her heart skip a beat. How addicting…!

“You cling to it, desperately. It’s like a lifeline, you know? A lifeline from the mind-numbingly ordinary and mundane torture you must experience every single day of your pathetic little life. Except I can’t even call it torture, because at least torture would be so despairing that it pries you away from that soul-crushing emptiness of your nothing life! You’re so normal it makes me sick. So ordinary, so normal, so hopelessly average!”

“But… what’s wrong with being average, Junko?” Makoto asks. “I mean, I know I’m just… not special–” His tone was sad–not miserable, not tearful, not despairing, just accepting, and she was uncertain whether or not that drop of unhappiness counted as despair. “–but doesn’t that make the exciting things all the more interesting when they happen?”

“You’re so boring you can’t even comprehend a life without intrigue,” She whines. “Hope is boring. It keeps you mediocre, keeps you from truly seeing the finer things in life!”

“...like despair?”

“Mhm!”

He pulls away from her touch. She pouts. It was just like Yasuke, all over again. “I don’t get that. What makes pain so interesting?”

“Life’s so repetitive, living in hope,” She says. “Day after day, the same 9 to 5, morning to evening, the same motions over and over and over… how dull. How drab. How…”

“Boring?” Makoto finishes for her.

“Now you’ve got it!” She chirps, curling her hands into fists and pressing them against her face in faux cuteness. “You’re such a fast learner, Makochan!”

Makoto frowns, glancing out into the sea. He stops walking. Junko slows down her pace, and turns to look at him. “Why’d you stop, Baka-Mako? Hah, way to keep a girl waiting–!”

“That’s not what hope is, though,” Makoto says, as if having thought on her words. “What you said. That’s just… living. Maybe it’s not much of a life, but living isn’t hope, you know, it’s–”

“Despaaaaair?”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s not that either. It’s just… it’s neither, I guess?” Makoto sits down on the sand. The tide laps at his knees, but he ignores the way the water touches, and he glances at her. “Are you going to sit down…?”

“Hm, but leaving you here will surely upset you…”

“We both know you won’t,” He says. “I’m not that boring for that.”

She scoffs. “What makes you think–”

“Your actions,” He finishes. “I might not be that special but I can read you, I think. You think I’m interesting, even when you say I’m not… and I don’t really get it, because I’m not anything great, I’m just a normal guy…” He trails off. Normal. Not special. Words he already thought of himself, and Junko only served to hammer in over and over and over. As much as he tried to deny her advances, words can sink in when repeated enough, and Junko was nothing if not persistent.

Without much thought, she moves to sit down beside him. Sand immediately clung to her clothes, but she ignored it. She’ll deal with the discomfort later—in fact, she welcomed it, after all, sand is the most despairing of soils–

–or something, she really didn’t care. It was funny when Makoto believed it, though, so she kept up the lie, finding his displeasure pleasurable.

“What is hope, then?” She asks, indulging his silent request.

“It’s… I guess it’s just knowing that you’ll be able to pick yourself back up even when the world beats you down,” He says. “Have you ever seen those posts about how grief doesn’t shrink, but you just grow around it…? I guess that’s how it feels like, for me.”

“Oh, you’re really taking life advice from the most bland ass inspirational quotes reposted by old people in their 40s, huh,” Junko says, bored. She leans her head against his shoulder, watching as the waves get closer, and farther.

“Maybe they’re onto something,” Makoto says. “They wouldn’t be saying it if it isn’t true.”

“Or it’s all bullshit to make people feel better about their sorry fuckin’ lives,” Junko growls, sticking out her tongue at the end of her sentence. “It’s so fuckin’ stupid that it makes me wanna barf!”

Makoto shrinks at her aggression. And yet, she can tell, he’ll still try. He opens his mouth, as if to speak, but Junko cuts him off.

“Are you familiar with the definition of insanity?”

“Huh?”

“This is so overplayed at this point, soooooooo many wannabe fictional villains have already gone on and on about this, but insanity—oh, it’s doing things over and over again expecting a different result. Trying time and time again, to no avail!”

Makoto rests his chin against his knees, pulling his legs closer to himself as he stares out into the sea. The sun has fallen by now, stars peppering the now dark landscape. It was… beautiful, really, Junko could admit. But beauty was nothing if not tarnishable, and she was certain the night sky would be all the more wonderful if the stars were shrouded behind layers of smog and pollution. In fact, it already was—especially deeper within the city, but in the countryside it was always so clear and vibrant.

“Are you calling me insane?” Makoto asks.

“Mhm!” Junko hums. She does not move her head from his shoulder—the way her head fit the crook between his neck and his shoulder felt like it was made for her, as if this was where she was exactly meant to be. “Not any saner than lil ol’ me!”

Makoto grows quiet. “Is it really hopeless?”

“Of coooourse it is—”

“You never let me finish, huh?” Makoto asks, his voice breaking slightly. There it is. He was so close, so close to giving up—perhaps a little earlier than she expected, but still, her heart began to race, her face flushing, oh, she was so damn excited—

He moves away from her, her head now missing its designated laying spot. She straightens her back, lifting her head up, disappointed.

“Is it really hopeless to help you?”

Junko grows quiet. Even still, it was about helping her. Junko would have settled for it, if not for the itch in her mind that whines, That’s it?

No, it can’t be it. Even still, his despair clung to hope. To help. To love.

The smile falls from her face. The mask vanishes. He had seen her without it many times before, but the chilling expression of nothing never made him feel any more at ease.

“Do you know what despair is, Makoto?”

He blinks away tears that began to form at the edges of his eyes. Oh, so he had been close to tears. Good to know.

“N-no,” He admits. “Not in the way you see it, at least.”

“Imagine someone you loved got hurt,” She says. “How would that make you feel?”

“Um… sad, I guess,” Makoto says. “But I don’t see why that’s something you want–”

“Deeper, Naegi,” Junko says. “Imagine it really happened. Imagine someone you loved was under my grip, a knife pressed against their neck, and I was laughing, telling you that you could do nothing.”

“W-wha–what are you saying–!”

She pushes herself towards him, her face inches away from his own. “Just fucking imagine it, Naegi,” Junko growls, pressing her hand against his shoulder and pinning him down against the sand. “Imagine I killed them.”

She can feel his breath from this distance, short, and fast, and nervous. She can only imagine the way his heart was racing—did it run as fast as hers? Was hers quicker, or was his? A race, yes, between hope and despair, Makoto and Junko, the pace of their hearts oh so similar, maybe one was not faster than the other, their hearts beating as one–

A giggle escapes her lips, and she leans into his ear, whispering, “Wouldn’t you feel so much hurt?”

He presses his hand against her chest and pushes her away, ever so slightly. Their faces still a touch apart, his lips parted, face flush. “I would be,” He admits. “I’d be so… upset, and angry, and it would make my heart feel like it’d implode into a thousand pieces—”

“So you do get it—”

“But I just… I’d be so sad, Junko, I don’t understand why that would make you so happy.”

“That’s the point!” She chirps, hopping off him and pressing her hands into the sand. “That all-encompassing feeling, that overwhelming distress–it’s so mind-shattering that it makes anything else pale in comparison!”

“No one likes to be sad, Junko. I don’t like being sad.”

Junko rolls her eyes. “That’s because you’ve never felt true despair. All that sadness you’ve felt in your life can’t hold a fuckin’ candle to the despair I can make you feel, Makoto.” Junko giggles. “After I’m done with you, you’d be so down bad with despair that your left hand could never bring you the same pleasure again!”

Makoto grows red. “J-Junko, what–”

“Relaaaaaax, I’m just teasing. Besides, you’ve never jerked yourself off before? What a shame… I thought all teenage boys were sexual freaks…”

Makoto’s flush deepens. He looks away, pressing a hand to his mouth. Junko tilts her head. “Wow, I can’t believe that got to you. You’re a lot weaker than I thought, Makochan–”

Makoto’s head whirls around, his face still red, but not in embarrassment. “C-can you talk to me normally for once? Without all the weird–” He sucks in a breath. “Weird shit?”

“Ohoho, Naegi cursing? It must be my lucky day!” Junko cackles, eager. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to see you like this–”

“I don’t get you!” He says, tears springing in his eyes. Again, crying. How pathetic… and yet, it made her glee. “Why do you love hurt so much? Why do you love despair? Why can’t I help you–!”

“Who says I want to be helped?” Junko giggles. “Really now, Makoto, after that thing I said about insanity, I thought you would’ve understood already. I’m beyond hope, beyond redemption, beyond you. Besides, what awaits me on your side of the grass is nothing but a mundane life, anyway, so no thank you.”

Makoto grows silent. He huffs, biting the inside of his lip. Hm. She would have expected him to leave by now.

“...I don’t understand you,” He murmurs. He does not look at her, but she can see his cheeks are wet. Damp with tears. Junko smirks. “I really… really don’t.”

Tense, shaky breaths escape Makoto’s lips as he backs away from Junko, hurt. “Understand me? Don’t you know how futile that effort will be, Makochan–I thought you got that by now. If you really did understand me, you would know for a fact I’m not so easily swayed, my dearest.”

She closes in the gap he tries to form between them. Her hand touches the underside of his chin, but he shakes her touch away. How detestable, he won’t even let her touch him… her heart breaks, a little bit, and she relishes in it. Wonderful…!

“So does that mean you’ll finally give up, then?” Junko giggles, settling to let herself fall, her head resting against the side of his arm. A devious smile sits on her face. “Finally, I was wondering how much longer you were going to keep a girl waiting–”

“Junko,” Makoto says, sucking in a breath. She raises a brow, noting the way his hands shake. Again, he looks at her. There was something pleading in his eyes. “I want to try.”

And just like that, any pleasure she may have felt vanished in one fell swoop. Her eyes dull. “Try?”

Hope. That’s all it was. Over and over and over. He may be crying now but it was all because of hope.

Insanity.

He nods, sniffling. He tries to pretend as if he isn’t, straightening his back and calming his breaths. Despite it all, he still wants to appear strong, to hold himself together, to try. Hope. Hope. Hope. Why does he keep doing this? He keeps doing it over and over and over and over and over like some kind of masochistic degenerate that gets off to his own pitifulness. He knows it won’t work. There is no way he is this stupid. There is no way he actually thinks she can be helped–

“I want to be your friend.”

Without skipping a beat, she barks out a cruel laugh. “That’s fuckin’ stupid, Naegi,” She says, gripping his face with her nails and forcing him to look at her. “You know that, right? I’ll kill you.”

“I want to understand you,” Makoto echoes, and her brows furrow in frustration. Again and again and again. His eyes are so wide, yearning, longing, filled with the purest hope she has ever seen. It made her sick. Why would he go to these lengths just to achieve failure? She didn’t get it. It was all wasted effort, wasted time, all for a result that was worse than death itself.

Hope was dreadfully boring. Hope was living a life of monotonous gray and believing that was all humanity had to offer. She would never settle for mediocrity.

“I want to–” Makoto chokes out, and her grip tightens. His cheeks squish against his lips, and he is unable to speak more. Her nails were sharp. She digs deep. He winces.

“Understand me?” Junko scoffs. “You repeat it over and over and over and yet you don’t even bother givin’ it a fuckin’ shot! You want to try? Then show it for once, or you’re just another hopeless little hypocrite who pretends he’s holier-than-fuck!”

Makoto freezes, and his breath hitches. Junko lets go. Her nails dug deep into his skin, and he reaches for the indents she made with her nails–raw and red and so close to bleeding. She wishes she drew blood. She feels sick at her own desire. She feels pleasure at the sickness.

He is silent again, with nothing but the sound of crashing waves and the distant cry of a seagull. She lets him think. He’s a lot more interesting when he does.

As he thinks, she lets her own thoughts wander. When the high of sadism and the thrill of hurt wanes, all she can really be is bored. He would pick himself up, no matter the amount of vitriol she spits his way. It was easy to forget that, especially in the thick of her frenzied clawing for his despair. So there was no point in interrupting his thoughts. How dull.

She recalls the start of these talks. A blunder on her end, really. He had stumbled into her plans by sheer luck—and it was her fault for failing to account his luck into her planning. Or perhaps it was a futile effort to even do so, with how Lady Luck seems to favor the idiot. Maybe not as outwardly as that freak Komaeda, but he was certainly fate’s favorite. If he wasn’t, all her attempts to kill him would have worked by now.

Logically, she understands why he keeps trying. Because he’s an idiot. A fool who believes in all those fairytales where the prince rescues the princess from the depths of evil, unaware that Junko herself is the damsel and the witch. Or perhaps he is aware. She doesn’t know which is worse.

She feels guilt, of course, but her guilt is twisted into her sense of desire, sewn and melted together in a horrific amalgamation of despair and gratification. Guilt made her feel awful, and in turn, all that self-hatred made her feel incredible. Potent emotions were all the same, weren’t they, regardless of the source. Love and hate were not opposites, but rather simply two words for the same thing.

Far better than apathy, really.

Anything was better than numb nothingness.

“...Junko?” Makoto breaks her out of her dull stupor. She glances at him, her eyes dead. He shivers at the stare. “What if I… did?”

Junko blinks, a flash of intrigue in her eyes. “Hm?” She asks, prodding him to clarify.

He clears his throat. “What if I… tried?”

“Haven’t you been trying this whole time?” Junko asks, looking out into the ocean. She pulls her own knees close to her, rolling her eyes. “That’s what you keep saying.”

“No, I mean–” He seems to struggle with his words. “I meant… try to see it your way. To… understand. Really understand. Because…” He sucks in a breath. “I’m realizing that I keep trying to get you to see things my way, and that hasn’t been fair to you. All I’m doing is preaching something you’ve probably heard a million times already, so I’m sorry for that.”

Something clicks in her mind.

Oh, wow, he was even dumber than she thought. And yet–this was the best and worst possible outcome.

“You really have the worst self esteem, Makoto,” She hums, giggling. Her voice takes on a different tone. “But very well then, peasant, we shall accept your apology!”

His eyes brighten at her tone. He was still craving her validation like a lovesick puppy! How endearing!

Not.

It was stupid. Worse than Mukuro, really, hopeless sister that she is. Hell, she’ll make the declaration right now—Makoto is the worst!

“No, no, no!” She huffs, glaring at him. “You’re still clinging to that stupid little hope of yours. You won’t get anywhere near understanding yours truly if you keep that up, Makochan.”

“A-ah,” He says, taken aback. “Of course… but…” Makoto shrinks. “I guess I’m just not built for it… but can you blame me? Despair’s so scary, why would anyone willingly choose that?”

“Because it’s so exciting!” Junko hums. Makoto frowns.

“Exciting…?”

“Eeeeeeexactly!” Junko says. “In this humdrum life, what can be more exciting than the intensity of pain?”

“I…” He starts, clearly about to attempt to dissuade her way of thinking, but he pauses to think. Understand her, he had settled on, so that is what he would do. It was a little baffling, even to the Ultimate Analyst, but these rare moments of genuine confusion from her end were nothing if not a relief from the constant predictability and sameness. “I think I understand why you think that way, kind of. You keep talking about how the world is boring, so… is despair the only way you can feel things?”

It was also, admittedly… kind of endearing. She held onto that feeling, tucked it away in her heart, letting it meld together with her intense hatred for Makoto, until her affection and her disdain became one and the same.

“Bingo! Bravo Makochan, you’re sooooooooo smart!” Junko purrs, wrapping her arms around his own, nuzzling her head against his arm. “But you’ve got a long way to go before you understand me. That’s all surface level, right?”

She already knew what he was thinking. Really, she wishes she came up with it. It was devious. Despicable. And it would lead to his own self-ruin.

“You already know what I’m going to ask you, right, Junko?”

“And you already know the answer is yes,” Junko purrs, all too pleased. Her heart was racing.

His eyes meet hers. “Junko,” Makoto starts. “I want to understand. So… make me feel it. For real.”

Her smile widens.

She had longed for this, for so long. An opening to ruin him. The possibilities for his despair had been vast, even at the beginning, and truth be told she never had any big plans for him other than knowing that she wanted to rip that smile away from his face forever and replace that doe-eyed look in his eyes with the deepest depths of cruel despair. But now…

An offer? For his own undoing?

“Feel despair?” Junko says, her smile far too wide and her eyes sparkling with malice. “You do realize what you’re asking of me?”

Makoto grows quiet. “I do,” He murmurs. “But it’ll be on my own terms. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“Haaaah? But that’s impossible, Naegi, do you even understand how despair works—”

“Then no one gets killed, how about that?” Makoto glares at her. His glare softens and he looks away. “I just want to understand…”

“I could work with that!” Junko chirps. She offers her pinky. “But you gotta swear on it, okaaaaay, Makochan–I’d hate to be a girl left on read after you make such a bold proclamation like that!”

Makoto hesitates. His eye looks down at her pinky for a long moment, before his eyes steel in hopeful determination, their pinkies locked into a twisted promise.

Makoto Naegi’s downfall… and he was the one who would dive headfirst into despair himself. The architect of his own despair…!

This was so much more than Junko could have ever imagined.

Chapter Text

Makoto has no idea why he offered her this in the first place. In the moment, he had made up his mind in some rare moment of steadfast determination, as if confident he would be able to pull her out of her own cruelty, but as the days pass and Junko keeps shooting him knowing looks in the halls of Hope’s Peak, he falters.

He really was nothing special. He can’t do this.

He wants to tell someone, but he knows doing so would not only break the shaky trust he barely managed to earn from Junko, but also put whoever he told in harm’s way. Kyoko was already in his case enough as it is, and the vague words Makoto shared, telling her that he would help Junko were more than likely doing nothing but set Kyoko on a rational warpath.

Was that a contradiction? Hell if he knows.

Sayaka places her onigiri into her mouth with an exaggerated nom! “Kirigiri-san will be fine,” Sayaka hums.

“H-huh?”

“I keep telling you, I’m psychic,” Sayaka teases. She didn’t even have to say the second half of the joke, Makoto already knew what she meant. He sighs, placing his head in his hands.

“How can you tell?” He asks, worn out. He lifts his head up to look at her.

“You keep giving her odd looks during class, like you’re hiding something. Enoshima-san too. Is this a romance thing…?”

“N-no!” He squeaks immediately, jumping back. Makoto’s face grows red. “Why would you even think that?”

“It’s okay if you have a crush on them, Makoto,” She says, placing her finger against her lips, thinking. “But I think that maybe Enoshima-san might be a better choice, in the end. It may be a little depressing getting married to a detective…”

“W-who said anything about marriage?” Makoto asks, dismayed. Beside Sayaka, Leon guffaws.

“You got a harem of chicks and you’re fucking complaining, Naegi? That’s rich.” Leon leans back, glancing at Sayaka with a knowing expression on his face. “Besides, you’re missing out on the obvious third option that is staring right in front of you–”

Sayaka unsubtly kicks Leon from under the table. “OW!”

Makoto frowns. Is she mad at Leon, or something? Well, she was always cross with the baseball player, but what now? “Uh… did anything happen between you two?”

“Nothing!” Sayaka hums, smiling at Makoto.

Makoto is uncertain, but he lets it go. If they didn’t want to talk, he couldn’t force them, though he still felt worried.

“What’s up with that look on your face?” Leon asks.

…or maybe not. Honesty would do him good here, and it wasn’t as if telling his friends his concerns was a bad thing, as much as Junko would suggest otherwise. After all, communication was a mark of trust, and only served to deepen your bonds with your friends.

At his continued silence, Leon raises a brow. He leans forward, pressing his chopsticks in Makoto’s face. “You look constipated.”

“A-ah—!” Makoto says, raising his hands sheepishly. “I guess I’m just… worried? Sayaka seems upset at you, but you don’t really seem to mind, so I was just thinking about that.”

Leon snorts, glancing at Sayaka knowingly. “You hear that, Maizono? Naegi-kun says you seem upset.” He snickers. Makoto frowns. “Oh, if only you let your heart out to sweet and soft-hearted Naegi over here, poured out your feelings, and let him know exactly what has you so troubled—“

Sayaka’s face is red with anger. She levies a glare at Leon, hands curled into fists as they shake.

“—ooooooor not, jeez Maizono, you’re fuckin’ scary sometimes…”

The expression of rage on her face vanishes and she hums, smiling. “Glad we got that settled!”

“Um…” Makoto says, confused. “Okay. If you’re sure…”

“She certainly is,” Leon murmurs. Sayaka gives him another look. Leon ignores her, and shoves a piece of rice into his own mouth to avoid her eyes.

Something was definitely up. But he’s already done his part, and if Sayaka didn’t want to confide in Makoto he would not press. After all, the pop idol had more friends than just Makoto, and he hardly expected her to entrust all her secrets to someone like him. The old insecurity begins to rile up again–that sense of inferiority, the feeling of not belonging, of being too ordinary to bask in the presence of these people who were certainly better than him, but he shakes it away.

Makoto picks at his bento. He wonders if it was all this talking to Junko that was making him this insecure. He didn’t want to blame her, really—if anything, it would be his fault for continuing to engage with her knowing that she upsets him so much. He sighs.

“...alright, you look upset for reals,” Leon comments. “Girl trouble that bad?”

“It’s nothing,” Makoto lies easily—white lies are easy, he finds, especially when he doesn't want anyone to be bothered by his inconsequential worries. He smiles. “A little bothersome, honestly, but nothing I can’t handle. I mean, it’s just Junko.”

“Well, she is a handful, I don’t blame you for looking like you’re about to start pulling out your hair,” Leon says, crossing his arms. He runs a hand through his hair. “But, really man? I didn’t take you as the type to be into crazy chicks.”

Sayaka blinks at Leon. “I thought Enoshima-san would be your type.”

“Pff, even I’m not crazy.”

Makoto pauses. “Am I crazy?” He asks quietly.

Leon must have seen something in Makoto’s expression because he immediately backs off, raising his own hands. “I mean, you’re not, but you get what I mean, Naegi-kun. Most people wouldn’t be able to keep up with Enoshima, I guess? Like–” He glances at Sayaka, giving her a look that reads, ‘Help me out here’.

“I think what Kuwata-kun means,” Sayaka says. “Is that she’s kind of a lot! Which isn’t a bad thing, really, but it can be rather exhausting being around her. But I know you can handle it, Makoto!” She smiles.

At her smile, Makoto’s heart skips a beat. Sayaka’s faith in him always made him feel better, and that warm and lovely feeling spreads in his chest–like mycelium, he imagines Junko saying.

The thought of the fashionista immediately makes him feel dread.

“Yeah!” Leon agrees. “Out of everyone in class, you’d probably know best. I mean, you’re even friends with Togami, of all people. That’s a feat in itself.”

“Oh come on, Enoshima-san is nowhere near as bad as that entitled jerk,” Sayaka huffs. “She might be a little eccentric, but that’s not a bad thing, you know? I mean, I hang out with her sometimes, we share a lot of makeup and fashion tips with one another! There was this one time—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, you two make each other flower crowns and paint each other's nails and braid each other's hair,” Leon says, rolling his eyes. “Or whatever it is chicks do when they have sleepovers with each other. All I’m saying is Enoshima scares the shit out of me, alright? Jeez. And considering you’re already scary enough, that means I’m saying a lot.”

Their banter fades into the background, blending into the rest of the cafeteria’s noise. The quiet sound of static drones in the back of Makoto’s mind, and he forces his hands to still. He looks down at his food. His mom prepared it for him, and he felt bad for being unable to finish it, especially since she worked so hard to make it for him, but Makoto couldn’t find it in him to finish it. He felt sick, a growing sense of unease planting itself into his stomach.

The deal he made with Junko replays itself in his mind, and the unease grows. His hands want to shake, his knees felt like they were about to buckle, and it takes all his strength to keep himself steady. Despair, he thinks. He agreed to it. But he can’t stop thinking about the fogginess of their agreement, the lack of detail, the fact he was stupid enough to just ask her not to kill someone, because there were a thousand more ways Junko could inflict the worst onto him without murder—

Makoto throws his bento box together, and stands suddenly. Get a grip, he thinks. He wouldn’t be able to get through the rest of his classes like this.

Leon and Sayaka look at him. “You okay, dude?” Leon asks.

Lie, or a truth? Makoto didn’t want them to worry. He couldn’t let them, especially not when this was his fault. Makoto swallows the lump in his throat, and he smiles.

“I just forgot I had some homework I needed to get done,” He says, laughing slightly. The nervousness escapes his throat, but if he was lucky (which, contrary to his supposed ultimate talent, he did not think he particularly was) it would serve to supplement his lie. “Don’t worry about me.”

“We can help you, if you want,” Sayaka says. “It wouldn’t be too much trouble—”

“What fuckin’ class do you have homework in?” Leon cuts in. “We don’t even have to attend class.”

The sentence would normally not make him panic. After all, while they didn’t have to, Makoto had his own curriculum tailored to his skills—which is zero, Junko would say, before giggling, so what’s the point of even giving you the time of day, Naegi—

“I mean, we do all have our own personalized schedules,” Sayaka says, snapping Makoto out of the brief spiral. He was glad for the interruption. She shakes her head. “We’re getting sidetracked. Do you want us to help, Makoto?”

Sayaka’s eyes looked at him expectantly. Makoto bites his lip.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Makoto says. “So I’ll be able to handle it on my own.”

He gives them both another smile. Leon narrows his eyes for the longest moment, lips set into a frown, and Makoto feels his own breath begin to quicken even more than it has, and as much as he was trying to keep it together the longer Leon looked at him the more he knew he can’t keep this up—

Leon shrugs, and waves him off. “Whatever. Just remember we got a game with the boys later tonight, alright, and you’re our best support—I really don’t want to have to ask Hagakure to join again, he’s fuckin’ hopeless…” He trails off.

Makoto just gives Leon another smile, a nod, before he practically dashes off without another word.

The pent up restlessness begins to bubble, and Makoto takes a step forward, then another, before he breaks off into a sprint, running across the halls without much thought other than he couldn’t just stay still. Part of him hopes this was it, this was the despair he promised Junko, but he was smart enough to know she would never be satisfied with just this. He knows her.

Or at least he thinks he does.

…he wants to believe he does. So he does. And—believing in Junko means admitting to himself that she was far crueler than he wanted to believe. That’s what trust is. As much as Junko called him an idiot, he wasn’t naive. He knew what she was. Blind faith was hardly trust—it was just another lie, and it wouldn’t be fair for her if he simply believed she was good for no reason. No—he believed in Junko because he had reason to.

It was the same with all of his friends. He believed them to be the people he knew they could be.

Makoto leans against a wall, panting as he stops. He slides down ever so slightly, staring at the ceiling, and letting out another sigh.

He wonders if Sayaka and Leon knew he was far more troubled about this than he was letting on. Guilt squeezes his chest at the thought—lying to them was only hurting them, after all, and he didn’t want them to feel disheartened at his lack of willingness to confide in them—

Or maybe he was being presumptuous, assuming that they would even care—

No, that’s not a good thought to have. They do care. He knows that they do. That was a fact. It took him so long to get here. To finally recognize that his friends do care, and that he stood on equal footing with the rest of their class. Maybe he wasn’t as talented, but he was fine with that, because it didn’t mean he was worth less. His breathing steadied. One, two. One, two.

He can handle this.

“Yeah,” He muttered. “I got this.”

Relapsing back into insecurity wasn’t a bad thing, he reminds himself. It wasn’t a steady process. He would stumble, and as long as he managed to pick himself back up, he’ll be fine.

Makoto looks down at his hands. They were still shaking, but it was better than before. He holds them close to his chest. He was lucky that there was no one in the hall now. If Taka were here… Makoto doesn’t know how much he would have been able to hold in the panic attack he had only narrowly avoided. And no offense, but he was certain Taka would only serve to make it worse.

Junko would probably laugh at him if she knew the state she had left him in. Somehow, the thought of that makes him smile. He didn’t feel good about it, not really, and Junko’s sadistic tendencies certainly made Makoto more than uneasy—it made him terrified, more so than he’d like to admit—but he felt a little glad that he even knew how she’d react.

Once upon a time, her unpredictability made her seem wild, larger-than-life, and Makoto was half-tempted to believe she was nothing more than the monster she presents herself as, but he refused. There was no way anyone could be that cruel. The fact he could read her now—it was progress. Baby steps.

Still, even with all his belief, the thought of their agreement still left him shaken. He could understand her a little bit now, but even still, he could not comprehend the depths of Junko’s supposed madness. That was the point of their deal to begin with, because he wanted to understand. But he was worried he was out of his depth.

Makoto sighs. Nothing to do about it now. Dreading about it would only make Junko all the more satisfied, and he would rather not feel worse than he already knew he would be.

Despair…

He could not even understand why that would be appealing.

“...Makoto?”

Makoto tenses, whirling around.

Short black hair, a face dotted with freckles—Mukuro.

“I—I didn’t notice you,” Makoto says.

“O-oh,” Mukuro says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry Naegi-kun, I didn't mean to. I just…”

“Instinct?” Makoto asks, offering her a smile. Smiling was easy. Smiling came naturally. So, for now, he let go of his worries, and focused on his friend in front of him. Truthfully, he wanted to be alone, but another part of him was welcome for the sudden company. Well… if she even wanted it. “It’s okay, Ikusaba-san, I know it just comes with your talent.”

She flushes, looking away. The Ultimate Soldier, despite her title, was rather shy. It was almost endearing, and it served to help Makoto detach Mukuro from his first impression of her. It was a little embarrassing to admit, but he had been quite fearful of her—of course, that sentiment also applied to the more physically adept members of their class, namely those Makoto knew had experience in fights, like Sakura and Mondo, but something about looking into the eyes of someone Makoto was certain had killed before was different.

Still, getting to know her in the last year helped him begin to think of her as more than the cold-blooded killer he assumed she was when they first met.

“What are you doing here?” Mukuro asks.

“O-oh,” Makoto says. “Um… Just thinking, I guess.”

“About…?”

Does he tell her? He already lied to Sayaka and Leon, but Mukuro was different. He doubted she would tell anyone, and she wouldn’t nearly be as judgmental as maybe Leon would have been. Makoto stays quiet for a moment, Mukuro simply looking at him. He was not sure if she was even expecting an answer.

“...have you ever made someone a promise and regretted it after, but you don’t know how to tell them you changed your mind?”

Mukuro blinks. “Not really,” She admits. Mukuro glances off to the side, before her eyes flit back towards him. Her eyes were not hollow. He used to think they were, but over time he came to realize her eyes were simply aged—he could only imagine seeing a thousand horrors would claw something deep out of your heart and change you forever. “I always keep my promises.”

Makoto shrinks. He expected as much. Nothing less for the Ultimate Soldier. “Ah… I guess that comes with having to be loyal, huh?” He sighs.

Mukuro tilts her head. She seems uncertain. Her social cues were not the greatest—neither were Makoto’s, admittedly, but somehow the rest of the class found themselves endeared to him anyway, in a way he truthfully could not understand. Still, he was past questioning it, and nowadays he simply accepted that they loved and cared for him.

Well, that was a bit of a lie. Sometimes he did wonder. But reminding himself that sometimes people simply care without reason kept the impostor syndrome from sinking in. He did not need to question his self-worth, as much as Junko kept trying to get him to.

“Is something bothering you?”

“Yeah,” He admits. “But it’s nothing that bad.”

She nods. “If anyone can handle it, it’s you, Naegi-kun.”

That’s what everyone keeps saying. Did they really believe in him that much? He knew they were his friends, but the unwavering belief his classmates had in his ability made his heart squeeze. He was not sure if he truly was capable. He wonders what would happen if he disappointed them.

The anxiety kept coming back. But it was valid, wasn’t it?

It was so hard to hold it together, sometimes. It was hard to believe the words he kept repeating to himself, to maintain that image of self-worth he worked all year to have. Junko knew all the right ways to get him to unravel.

“Do you mean it?” He asks, his voice quiet.

Mukuro seems to be taken aback by his question. She pauses.

“I do,” She says after a moment, nodding to herself, as if to confirm. Not to him, but to her. Her eyes meet his, and she repeats it. “I do.”

Repeating his self-affirmations felt hollow, at times. But reminders from his friends were worth more than a thousand words he told himself, and he smiles warmly. It did not matter if he wasn’t able to. The fact they believed he was made him want to be the person they already thought he was. It kept him going. It’ll keep him going.

Even if he wasn’t good enough, he’ll strive to be.

Junko might not believe it, might think his steadfastness was nothing more than a hollow desperation to be happy, but—

She does not believe in him. But he believes in himself, and he believes in her. And maybe that was all that matters. Maybe she wasn’t good, maybe she was exactly the person she says she is, but Makoto didn’t believe it. Or rather, he believed she was better than that.

A realization sinks in.

She wants him to feel despair. But that deal was one-sided, and it wasn’t fair.

All this time, he spent worrying about her, worrying about what she’d do to him, but… was that really fair to her? He was believing in the worst of her. Makoto swallows. He was letting her bully him, letting her affirm her own beliefs into both him and herself, and that wasn’t good for either of them.

Makoto can’t let her do that. Not simply for his own sake, but for Junko’s.

Makoto feels relieved, leaning back against the wall as he looks at Mukuro. Belief wasn’t blind. Belief was work, terribly hard work, and it wasn’t easy. But he would try. He owed it to his friend.

“Thank you,” He says. His smile is genuine. “That means a lot, Ikusaba-san.”

Mukuro simply nods. “I am glad,” She says, her face red. “Will you be okay?”

Makoto nods back at her. “You’ve really helped me out.”

“I didn’t do much, though,” Mukuro points out. That may be true, but it was a lot for Makoto.

“You never really know the impact you have on people,” Makoto says. He keeps smiling at her. Her face reddens, and she looks away. He falters. “Um… did I say something wrong?”

“N-not at all,” She squeaks, avoiding his gaze. Maybe he did. Darn. He knew she was skittish, despite her soldier persona—so he doesn’t let her nervousness get to him. “I… should get going.”

“O-oh, of course,” He says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry to keep you.”

“Don’t be sorry!” She says hurriedly, her cheeks still flush. “I mean… I’m glad I could be of help.”

Mukuro moves to leave. Makoto pauses, before saying, “Ikusaba-san?”

Mukuro turns. “Um… yes, Naegi-kun?”

“Thank you again,” He says. “Remember that, will you?”

Mukuro’s blush deepens, and she nods quickly. She scampers off in a hurry.

Makoto sighs. He hopes she believes him. If she doesn’t, he cannot do much to convince her otherwise, but he wants to believe she did. After all, she believes in him, so that must mean she believes that he believes in her.

For someone so hardened, Mukuro was certainly high strung. Or maybe that was part of her talent? Makoto wouldn’t know. He’s never been through the things Mukuro went through, so he could only imagine what it’s like… but he truly was thankful for the brief conversation.

He adjusts his hold on his bag, taking a step forward into the hallway. The hallway was empty, which was to be expected. He liked to have his lunch a little bit after the usual lunch hour, and so did Sayaka and Leon—it helped to keep them away from the inevitable overeager Reserve Course student that would sneak into the main department’s building during their own lunch hour just to see them, and Makoto liked eating during a more quiet hour of the day. His footsteps echoed in the empty hallway, and he began to think.

Reminders, he thinks. Reminders always helped. It was easy to spiral, easy to dread, easy to feel worried about the extent of Junko’s cruelty. Of course, it wasn’t an invalid concern, but allowing these things to take over his mind would only serve to make him feel worse. He kept trying to remind himself of that this entire day, but it was difficult to hold onto that sliver of hope without someone keeping him held up, and as much as he wanted to confide in Sayaka and Leon he knew that he would rather not have them worry about something they had no control over. Telling Mukuro was easy, because she would not push, she would not pry. That wasn’t to say the others were any less worth telling, but he would simply rather not make this a bigger deal than it ought to be.

Makoto keeps walking. It will all be fine. And even if it didn’t… he should be able to pick himself back up, right? That’s all that matters in the end.

Determined, he sets off to look for Junko. No more avoidance, no more knowing looks that made him shudder.

He wasn’t going to let her have her way. If she was going to make him feel despair, he’d make her understand hope. That’s what friendship was.

Makoto would put his foot down. He wasn’t a pushover. He’d do his damned hardest to help her, to get her to see things his way. Maybe everyone else wouldn’t see it that way, and maybe he was a fool, but he didn’t care.

He takes his next step with purpose, and despite it all, he manages to smile.

After all, Makoto was nothing if not an optimist.