Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Let me explain the situation. The reason why you're all here today is to kill each other."

Of course, Shinji Mimura had already come to that realization long before Sakamochi had spoken those words. Even though his brain was still foggy from the potent drugs that they’d been gassed with, from the moment he’d woken and found himself collared like a dog he knew what was going down. The babbling and panicked confusion of most of his classmates showed, however, that they didn’t. For the most part, at least- Shinji’s quick survey of the room had shown that Kazuo and the weird thuggish new kid looked pretty blase about the whole situation. He wasn’t too surprised— he’d always found Kazuo more than a little bit on the creepy side, and Shogo Kawada looked like the type to have a checkered past. And then there was Mitsuko, checking her nails and looking bored. Beauty and danger. Shinji would have been turned on by her if he wasn’t smart enough to be scared shitless. There were some things you looked at but did not touch, and she was one of them.

He had to love Yukie for the way she’d stood up and demanded politely, but with an undercurrent of righteous indignation, to know what was going on. There was a reason that girl was class representative. Shinji wished he didn’t know the answer to her question, but his wide breadth of knowledge from years of research on the government permitted him none of the comfort, however temporary, of ignorance. He would have given anything for those fleeting seconds of false hope. Which was why when Yoshitoki turned to him in angry confusion, he went along with it. He wouldn’t be the one to shatter those last precious moments for him.

After Sakamochi’s announcement, there was a heartbeat of total silence before a scream pierced the air. Whatever innocence had existed was over forever, and the nightmare had truly began. The male class rep was the next to stand up, and Shinji couldn’t help but raise his brows as he listened to his faltering quaver. He really didn’t think Kyoichi was about to come up with something brilliant, but he would be happy for once to be proved wrong. But unsurprisingly, Kyoichi just stammered out something about his dad’s head honcho position. That ain’t gonna help you, buddy, Shinji thought, rolling his eyes. Nothing will.

"You must know what equality means. Listen up. All people are born equal,” Sakamochi lectured in his irritating simper. Shinji could agree with that concept, but this certainly wasn’t the way he wanted Kyoichi to learn that lesson.

Of course, Sakamochi had more than words to hammer home the point that resistance was futile. Mr. Hayashida’s corpse was a more tactile reminder, and Shinji felt the blood drain from his face at the sight. He dug his nails into his palms to keep from crying out when the soldiers pumped rounds of bullets into his teacher’s bloated dead body. He closed his eyes for a moment, did a mental salute of respect to Hayashida for making a stand, no matter how hopeless, and when he opened them he forced himself to remain calm and silent. Not everyone had Shinji’s resolve, however. When Yoshitoki started speaking, Shinji saw Shuya tensing up; he realized his best friend was treading on very thin ice. Shinji was concerned too— he didn’t know Yoshitoki too well but he knew he had a bit of a temper on him, and hoped it wouldn’t be provoked.

Sakamochi continued to prattle on in a sickeningly dulcet tone, saying the ugly word rape like it was nothing. Shuya flew out of his chair at this, and Yoshitoki was a goner. Shinji didn’t have time to close his eyes before Yoshitoki was blown to bits only feet away from him. He was badly shaken, unable to breathe for a moment. Only five minutes ago he’d been commiserating with him, and now they would never speak again, for Yoshitoki had been silenced forever at the whim of an egotistical sadist. And he clearly wouldn’t hesitate to go further, as Fumiyo’s slumped body and the shot to Noriko’s leg proved. There was nothing Shinji could do for Yoshitoki now, he could only pray that his friend Shuya would not do something stupid— brave, but stupid —as well. But Shuya was shellshocked with rage and disbelief, and in no position to be making measured decisions. Shinji forced himself to think. He was just as rattled and furious but he knew that for the sake of Shuya’s life there was no time to lose. The game would be lost forever unless he tried a desperate save.

“Mr. Sakamochi,” he said, raising his hand, and his voice came out calm, even slightly arch, despite the terror and grief gripping his insides. “Noriko looks injured. I was wondering if I could help her get back to her seat.” Once he’d been granted exasperated permission, he took his time walking over to her, putting every effort into making it look like a carefree saunter. Presentation was everything. He pressed a handkerchief to her bleeding wound— hey, the Third Man was never not prepared— and tried to put every ounce of assurance he could into the gesture. Noriko stared numbly ahead, her usually kind eyes blank and empty.

“Stand up, Noriko,” he said, firmly but gently, and with a steady arm under her shaking shoulder they both rose. He saw to his dismay that Shuya was still standing frozen, right in the danger zone of Sakamochi’s ire and his soldier’s hasty guns. The next move was pivotal. Shinji was turned away from Sakamochi, so he dared to raise his brow and shake his chin ever so slightly. Shuya just stared back at him blankly. Shinji felt a flash of panic— the risk of the play would mean nothing if his teammate couldn’t receive it. But then, yes, he understood, and at the last possible moment slid slowly back into his chair. Shinji let out an inaudible sigh of relief, and felt a familiar surge of pride in Shuya, despite the strange scenario they were in.

Once he was back in his seat, perhaps still riding on the adrenaline of his win, Shinji decided to try one last gamble. But when he suggested, with his characteristic audacious flair, that The Program be postponed until Noriko’s injury healed, he’d gone too far. When Sakamochi sweetly proposed they just kill her instead to level the field, Shinji’s heart skipped a beat, and not for the first time he cursed his bravado. He knew he had one chance to make a save and he couldn’t mess it up.

“Come on, I was just kidding,” he said, holding his hands up and making his tone friendly and jokey. Sakamochi burst out laughing and his soldier took his hand away from his rifle. Good one, Mimura.

Shinji stayed silent for the first of Sakamochi’s infuriating explanation of the rules of the game—he’d made himself stand out enough and knew he couldn’t push it any further. His mind was already whirring, trying to grasp onto something that might be their salvation. And yes, it was theirs, not his. Shinji had never been an everyone for themselves kind of guy, and he wasn’t about to start now. He would be the last of his friends to leave the building; he watched Hiroki leave, and then Shuya. When Shuya made his own risky move and dared to request to close Yoshitoki’s eyes, Shinji had to press down a wave of emotion. Any doubts he’d had were silenced, and it even gave him a spark of courage— he had the very highest calibre of friends, and if anyone could beat the system, they could.

For that was exactly what Shinji intended to do. He was used to hopeless situations: on the court, in his personal dramas, and especially in this kamikaze fight against the Republic he’d inherited from his uncle. There was something about an impossible challenge that exhilarated him even as it terrified him. As he walked down the cramped corridor, he tried to hold on to that feeling rather than the fear. After all, he’d spent years trying to chip away at the government from the outside, learning everything he could and making mischief through his hacking. But that was child’s play, this was the real deal. And what better place to take down a system than from the inside? In some ways, you might call this luck, or even providence. Even if it was chance, Shinji Mimura was going to make the most of it.

As he stepped out into the night, he kept his eyes straight ahead. It was game on now, and there was no turning back.

Chapter Text

The night air bit cold on Mitsuru’s cheeks as he rushed through the tangled thicket leading to the stony beach. He paid it no heed, however, as his mind was on one thing, as it ever had been since the day that Kazuo had won his eternal loyalty and devotion. The depth of Mitsuru’s complete trust in Kazuo was such that he felt no fear despite the nightmare situation he’d suddenly found himself in. He hadn’t even been surprised when Kazuo had slipped him the note, because of course he had a plan. No matter what, Kazuo would never lose his cool. Mitsuru knew that with his sharp mind he’d already worked out a way to protect the Kiriyama Family, and that he and the other boys would do anything within their power to make it work. After all, there could only be one king, and anyone else had better serve. At the feet of such a ruler, Mitsuru had no problem kneeling.

All the members of the Family had pledged similar fealty to Kazuo, but Mitsuru knew in his heart that the bond between him and the Boss was much stronger than anything they’d ever know. Mitsuru’s admiration for Kazuo had rapidly grown into deep attraction, and Kazuo, of course, had immediately sensed it. Amused by his follower’s infatuation, he was entertained by indulging it. Like in all other things, he was impersonal but excellent, and Mitsuru was thrilled to be taken to this new level of confidence. He knew that to Kazuo it was simply an enjoyable diversion for his ever restless mind, but nonetheless it was a service he was pleased to render. As Mitsuru rushed heedlessly forward to Kazuo’s call, it could be said that he understood loyalty to such a complete fullness that the line between his own will and Kazuo’s had become hopelessly blurred.

As he scrambled up the rocks, he heard a voice and instinctively raised the gun he’d found in his backpack. The tension in him relaxed when he saw it was Kazuo speaking his name. And then immediately his heart seized again when he noticed the corpses piled at Kazuo’s feet, like grim offerings of tribute. He blinked away disbelief when he realized these bloodied bodies were no enemies but rather Ryuhei and Hiroshi, members of the Family, as well as a meek girl in their class, Izumi. Kazuo’s beautiful and strange face was thrown into sharp shadow by the thin moonlight, and he calmly watched Mitsuru’s confusion without offering explanation.

Prompted by Mitsuru’s stammering, he finally spoke. They all tried to kill me. Mitsuru was caught between conflicting drives raging in his head— he wanted to unquestioningly accept Kazuo’s word as he always did, but some rebellious part of his mind whispered that this answer rang false. Kazuo’s eyes suddenly seemed no longer mysterious and alluring but cold and hard and inscrutable. The air was thick with the salt of blood and the sea. Mitsuru felt the first pangs of fear rising in his ribs, but fought through it, rattling on about what their plan might be. It was just the two of them now— wasn’t this what he’d wanted?

“I’m fine either way.” Kazuo’s words cut through Mitsuru’s brave attempt at normalcy.

“What do you mean?” Mitsuru continued, clinging to playing the fool, a role he was so used to by now.

“I sometimes lose track of what’s right and wrong,” he said, his voice thoughtful and measured next to Mitsuru’s panicked rambling. “Like now. I just don’t know.” There was something sad about his detached contemplation, and in a different context Mitsuru would’ve found it tragically heroic. Now, however, there was only mounting dread building in his chest, crashing into horror as he suddenly realized.

"That's when I tossed a coin. If it came up heads I'd take on Sakamochi and—" Mitsuru finally fumbled for his gun, but it was far too late. "If the coin came up tails, I decided I'd take part in the game."

Mitsuru’s bullet riddled body collapsed, dismissed at last by his king. Kazuo was alone again on the beach, if it could really be said that he wasn’t before.

To anyone else, such a choice would have been a matter of great thought and emotion, a noble struggle against the government contrasted with the selfish draw of saving your own skin. To Kazuo, it really was of no more importance than the flip of a coin could determine. He had no political convictions, nor much interest in his own life. He was merely looking for something interesting to do. Both options would provide him with a complicated challenge, so both were to his satisfaction. It had just happened to be tails, that was all. Others took Kazuo’s detached reserve as cool reason and logic, but really he just had an endless drive for ultimate experience, untempered by the hindrance of emotions.

The waves lapped at the shore as Kazuo walked quickly and quietly into the night, the blood of his followers mixing with the seafoam of the rising tide. Mitsuru had forgotten that a ruler may take many advisors, but all are disposable, for the throne only has room for one.

Chapter Text

Mitsuko Souma was beautiful. She had been since she was a little girl, with big brown eyes fringed with bambi lashes, skin as pale as moonshine, and a rosebud pout of a mouth. Yes, she had been a lovely child. If she’d known what kind of world she was crawling into, she would have clawed her pretty face off.

Beauty may have power, but how could a child know how to use it? Mitsuko certainly hadn’t, not then. She could still remember staring into a dirty mirror and scratching at her face, over and over with her sharp small nails, until her skin was red and raw and beaded with dots of blood. How she’d hated everything about herself that others were drawn to— she wished she was as plain as the peeling walls of her room, as unnoticed as the stained concrete that thousands of feet passed over every day. She had cried till her eyes were glued shut that first time, and for so many nights after. Her tears and screams had gone unlistened to, until eventually they dried up, and Mitsuko became blank and numb, no longer shocked at the hardness of the world, but one and the same with it.

She knew how to use her beauty now. Mitsuko knew what power was. She was unimpressed by what others thought it was— the boys in her grade playing pretend thug, even the ones who were tied to the yakuza— they were all ridiculous to her. Mitsuko, in all her tiny, frail, five-foot-nothingness, was stronger than any of them. Every scrap of softness or innocence had been scraped out of her, again and again, and what was left was sheer unyielding resilience.

Mitsuko was lucky her iron insides didn’t show, for she was as lovely and enticing as ever. And that was her weapon— just as she always did she drew them in, except now her teeth were fangs and she swallowed them alive. Could it really be called manipulation, when the flies flew into the web so eagerly? They loved the beauty of the web, and they’d made the spider themselves. Mitsuko had venom now and she would use it, and she’d look good while doing it— they really couldn’t complain. Pretty hurts.

Mitsuko had once thought tears were useless. Now she knew that wasn’t true. She was nothing— a violated delinquent teenage nobody, but her curse had become her blessing. She would survive The Program on the poisonous combination of angelic beauty combined with complete ruthlessness. It had been years since Mitsuko had cried real tears, but she would weep rivers now to help her get what she wanted. When Mitsuko heard Megumi’s phone blare into the quiet of the darkened house, she allowed herself a smirk before turning, eyes already welling up and chin quivering. It was showtime.

Chapter Text

Shogo Kawada took a deep drag off his cigarette, savouring the feeling of the smoke curling down his throat and settling in his lungs even as his eyes never stopped scanning the treetops. As he exhaled, he heard a rustling behind him— the snap of a twig underfoot— and he instantly swung around, raising his Remington, finger on the trigger and ready to fire. He lowered the gun and let the tension drain out of his body when he saw it was only Shuya, several metres off, crunching loudly towards him. Oh look, he was even waving.

“Hey,” Shuya said when he reached him. Shogo gave a slight nod, nothing in his casual stance indicating he’d just had a cocked gun pointed in Shuya’s direction. Shuya squinted at him. “Aren’t you worried someone might smell your smoke?” he asked.

“If someone was close enough to smell the smoke, I would’ve seen them five minutes ago,” Shogo said icily. He could’ve mentioned how Shuya really shouldn’t be preaching considering he’d just been tramping through the underbrush like an elephant, but he decided to let it go. Shuya visibly flinched under his glare.

“Sorry, Shogo,” he muttered. “I wasn’t trying to imply anything. I mean, you probably are the best lookout of all of us. You seem like you have the most experience in this kind of stuff...” Shogo couldn’t help but let out a snort at that. More than you know, Shuya, more than you know. Shuya looked so panicked that Shogo felt his irritation softening— with the scars that crossed his face like train tracks, he knew he always looked intimidating, whether or not he really intended to be.

“Shuya,” he said, cutting off his rambling. “That bastard Sakamochi can do a lot of things, but he and his fucked Program are not gonna stop me from having a smoke when I want to.” Shuya paused for a moment, and then nodded.

“You’re right. You have to take what enjoyment you can, I guess, even now. Especially now.” And damn it if his gaze didn’t flicker to the shaded patch of trees where Noriko was resting. Shogo bit back a smirk. Shuya’s emotions were about as hard to read as a freshly cleaned window. If he’d ever believed that it was only duty to Yoshitoki that kept Shuya so devoted to Noriko, five minutes in their presence made it obvious that was bullshit. Bullshit that Shuya still seemed intent on believing, however, so Shogo held his peace.

He felt his amusement fade as he thought of Noriko. Even though she was putting up a brave front, Shogo could tell she was weakening. She never complained— in fact, Shogo and Shuya practically had to bully her into taking breaks— but he could see that her usually pale skin was flushed and her clear gaze clouded with fever. They’d managed to staunch the bleeding, but there was nothing he could do to ward off the infection that he feared had already set in. They’d been stopping to let her rest every half hour or so, but Shogo knew they’d soon have to find somewhere more permanent. Although it would be all too easy to succumb to panicked anxiety and keep moving around, Shogo knew that it was actually smarter to conserve energy and only relocate when you had to. Sure, movement gave the illusion of safety, but you were really just tiring yourself out and exposing yourself to more potential predators. So long as they paid attention to the zone they were in and kept a good lookout, it wouldn’t be suicidal to find a hideout, however temporary. Beyond that, Shogo didn’t know. This was not the kind of scenario where there were any certainties.

“Can I have one?” Shuya asked suddenly, breaking Shogo’s train of thought. Shogo stared at him in confusion before realizing that Shuya was referring to the half empty packet of cigs he held idly in his left hand. His brows shot up.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, with a chuckle, stubbing out his cigarette butt on the side of the stump he was sitting on and shaking his head in amusement. “I wouldn’t have thought you were
the type.” But he passed him a cig all the same. He hadn’t paid much attention to Shuya— or any of his classmates, really— when he’d arrived at Shiroiwa Junior High, only to the extent of identifying who was a potential threat. Considering that Shuya was about as intimidating as a well-intentioned bunny rabbit, he’d barely made a blip on Shogo’s radar. He’d noted him as being a casual part of Shinji Mimura’s squad, a group that he dismissed as silly jocks who fancied they had a rebellious streak but had never actually had a taste of the real world outside their sheltered suburb. All talk, no action. If anything, Shuya was the least out there of any of them. A follower rather than a leader. But Shogo had to admit from what he’d heard from Shuya about Mimura’s extracurricular activities that he had more gumption than he’d given him credit for. And Shuya was no pushover either. There were times when Shogo was pleased to be proved wrong.

“I’m not, not usually,” Shuya said, slightly flustered. “But I figure— what the hell? Take what fun you can, and all that.”

“You pretty much got it,” Shogo agreed, taking the lighter out of his other pocket. He gave it a few clicks, and Shuya started and lifted the cigarette to his lips. Shogo leaned forward to light it for him. Shuya took a big gulp, and barely a second later he started coughing on the smoke, hacking so hard it sounded like he was going to bust a lung. Shogo gave him a thump on the back while glancing around for any movement in the underbrush— so much for being inconspicuous.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Shuya insisted once he’d caught his breath. “Just went down the wrong way.” Shogo rolled his eyes.

“Have you ever had one?”

“Yes!” Shuya exclaimed indignantly. Shogo just crossed his arms and waited. “I had a drag off of Shinji’s at a party last summer,” Shuya admitted after a second, flushing a little.

“Thought so,” Shogo said. Okay, so maybe he hadn’t been that wrong about Shuya. “Look,” he sighed. “inhale slowly, hold it in your lungs for a few seconds, and then let it out.” Shuya nodded seriously, scrunched up his nose in concentration, and then took a deep breath, psyching himself up to try again. There was something oddly adorable about it, something sweet and innocent and  untrampled on that touched him. He’d stopped believing there was anything left like that.

He had to turn away for a moment. As he watched Shuya take another drag, he felt something protective and almost tender rise in him. This was probably the last thing anyone expected him to do. Thug Kawada, helping out two other classmates, one of them with a lame leg to boot. And Sakamochi and his gang would know about his record. You don’t make it out of a Program without becoming a weapon, sharp at every edge. But still. Here he was. He’d tossed his lot in with Shuya and Noriko, till death do us part and all that. He chuckled grimly at the thought. He couldn’t say why he’d done it. Maybe because he believed there was strength in numbers. Maybe because the healer in him had taken pity at the sight of Noriko’s busted leg. Maybe because of the way Shuya looked at her, the same way he’d once looked at Keiko, a year ago, a lifetime ago. He probably did have a better chance at surviving alone. So what? Shogo found he didn’t particularly care about surviving. That’s what Sakamochi, what the government, expected to happen— for their fear and hatred and cowardice to win, for them to do everything and anything just to live a minute longer. Fuck that. He wanted to put up a good fight, give the government hell, and he wanted Shuya and Noriko to do what he and Keiko couldn’t. Make it out, together. Maybe it was a lost cause, but Shogo didn’t mind lost causes. After all, he was one.

“Shuya!” Noriko cried from behind them, just as Shuya exhaled a plume of smoke. “What are you doing?” Shogo turned and took her in. She still looked frail, but she was limping more steadily, and her eyes were clearer. The rest had done her well. Shuya coughed on his cigarette, this time at being caught by Noriko rather than the smoke.

“Nothing!” he exclaimed. “Well, I mean, obviously not nothing but, you know...” Shogo had thought he was flustered earlier, but he hadn’t seen anything. Now Shuya was blushing wildly and protesting his innocence just as he’d tried to convince Shogo of his experience minutes earlier. No wonder. If Shuya was a member of the goody two shoes club, Noriko was president.

“I was just keeping Shogo company, it’s not like it’s something I do all the time—”

“Shuya,” Noriko cut him off, and her tone was mock serious, but Shogo could see her eyes were shining. “Hand that over.” He did, without question. She held it in her hand for a moment, before raising it to her lips and taking a puff. Shuya gaped at her like a fish out of water.

“What?” she said when she finished. “Even I don’t want to die without trying a smoke.” There was a beat of silence, then they all started laughing. It shouldn’t have been funny, but somehow, in the middle of this, it was. Noriko reached over and placed the cigarette back between Shuya’s lips. He beamed at her, took a drag, breathed out, and then raised his other hand to his mouth, unthinkingly following the ghost of her touch.

“Hey!” he said, excitedly turning to Shogo. “I think I’m feeling something!” You sure are, Shogo thought, but it ain't the nicotine.

Chapter Text

Everything was warm. Her heartbeat, loud and precarious in her ears, sending out a gush of blood with every pulse, furious at first, then weak, weak, weaker still. The afternoon sunlight filtering in shifting patterns through the trees. Hiroki’s tears on her face. She blinked up at his face, swimming above hers. Hey, come on. Don’t cry now. She would’ve laughed if she could. All these years, and they hadn’t changed. Takako had never been a crier, and she wasn’t about to start now. But his tears dripped down her cheeks as if they were her own, grief enough for them both. She’d always known that Hiroki was strong, and now he was strong enough to give her his weakness.

Death was cold, but dying was warm. Or maybe it was the adrenaline still coursing through her system, combined with the light-headed airiness she was feeling from the blood loss. The high of a victory, cut short with the shock of a bullet. Despite that, she felt like she’d won— even Mitsuko had conceded it. You were a better girl than me. Past-tense. Like Takako soon would be— was, already.

What did winning matter, if you were out for the count? She felt wound up, thrilled and exhausted and enthralled by what she’d just done, far more real and permanent than any race she’d ever run. Kazushi’s eyes on her, heavy with lust and the threat of violence, thinking he had her in a corner. Not so fast, buddy. She remembered straddling him, the gaping red emptiness of his sockets staring blindly up at her— he would never look condescending or self-satisfied again. She did tell him that he should have been thinking about his life, not his prick. The ice-pick, lodged in his throat, the sticky slurp of it, his body seizing in a convulsion that she felt every tremor of. Rolling off of him, her heart racing like she was coming down from something. She’d let her guard down for a moment, half a moment, a second too much.

Takako, Mitsuko’s voice behind her, soft and assuring. You killed him with just that? As another girl, I’m impressed. She was beautiful, Takako had to admit it, finding herself transfixed despite knowing the danger she was dealing with. The admiring chumminess was too good to be true, but she found herself somehow hoping it was. She could only imagine the sway Mitsuko could have on a lesser being.  But Takako was no chump, she knew this was a face-off, and she felt the thrum of nerves mixed with adrenaline. She felt like the season’s favourite facing off against the defending champion. The two most beautiful girls at Shiroiwa, the most ruthless, too— Takako had just proven she could stand her own in that category.

Mitsuko’s eyes had shone, heat and danger, I really like girls like you. Takako had run damn fast, considering the blood draining out of her leg. But not enough, never enough from the moment Mitsuko had spoken her name. Takako wanted to get up and try again— she always rose to the challenge, and Mitsuko certainly was one. Just one more shot, she knew she could come out on top this time. But if this was so much more exciting than a game, it was because it wasn’t one. There would be no second chances, no training and practicing for the next event. Damn, Takako thought, I was getting good.

She blinked up at Hiroki’s face, swimming above hers, and forced it into focus. She realized he wasn’t crying— did that mean she was? He held her, arms still and sure, and though his expression was sombre and his eyes wet, his cheeks were dry. He was holding it together for her, or maybe holding her together.

“I’m sorry,” he says. She just stares, not understanding. “I waited for you,” he explains softly. “But then Yoshio came back, and I was distracted, and you took off running. I chased after you, but you’ve always been faster than me.” She vaguely remembers hearing a voice calling behind her, but she’d just kept running, too cautious to investigate whether it was friend or foe, too practical to believe Hiroki would’ve risked his life to wait for her. But he had. If she wasn’t crying already, she felt like it now. If only she had waited. If only she had turned and stopped. They could have been together, all this time. All the possibilities that could have been stretched out in front of her, all cut off because she never could stand still like him, she always had to run.

But that was the story of Takako and Hiroki, a series of what-ifs. Too much potential to say there was nothing, too little to actually start something. But there was always the possibility, tiptoed around, unspoken. Takako was a straightforward girl, she didn’t like things that were unspoken. Maybe that’s why she said what she did next. And besides, she’d better ask now, or she’d never know.

“Do you like someone?” Hiroki pauses, taken aback. She’s always been unpredictable.

“Yes.”

“It’s not me, is it?” It’s a question, but it’s somehow more of a statement. She knows, she knows the answer already, but damn that little piece of hope in her chest.

“No,” he says at last, sad and gentle, “No, it’s not.” And only Hiroki could break a heart so softly. It hurts for a moment, but then she takes a breath and lets it go. She’s never lingered on her defeats. And would it really be a victory if he’d said yes? Just another what-if, another possibility that never would be. Hiroki loved her. He’d waited for her, and he was by her side now. Next to that, she found it really didn’t matter if he liked her that way.

“Just hold me,” she said finally. “Please.” His expression trembled, as if he was going to sob, but instead he pulled her up with his arms and pressed her against his chest. She could hear his heart, the steady rhythm of it, and willed her own stuttering one to follow it. She looked him straight in the eyes.

“You know, you’re a good guy, Hiroki.”

“And you’re the coolest girl in the world.” She smiled, because she wasn’t afraid. She was happy, because he was here, and there was steadiness and gentleness and goodness in the world, and she would never have to live in one without it.

Chapter Text

Shinji could feel Yutaka’s eyes on him while he talked, wide with amazement, hanging onto his every word. He was practically preening under the reverent gaze. He couldn’t deny it, he’d always loved attention, and it turned out that even in the middle of this sick game they were living in, he was no different.

“What do you think?” he said at last, finally pausing for breath. He threw his arms open and tilted his head, waiting for a reaction, but he really already knew what it would be from the look in his best friend’s eyes.

“Incredible,” Yutaka murmured. Shinji beamed at him, touched and pleased at the praise. He felt a flush of satisfaction, as well as a surge of tenderness and affection for Yutaka, who looked at him with such complete confidence. And beneath that, as he held Yutaka’s gaze, he felt the flicker of a familiar heat building in him. Really, Shinji? he chided himself. So not the time. But his smile faltered when he saw something catch in Yutaka’s expression, clouding the former brightness.

“Shinji,” he said, and Shinji couldn’t tell whether it was a question or a statement or a plea, but it was full of something that made him pause.

“What’s up?” he asked, feeling protective and wanting to fix whatever had caused Yutaka’s smile to fade.

“I was— I was just wondering—” Yutaka trailed off, shooting a look at Shinji and then glancing away.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“Why are you friends with someone like me?” Shinji was so taken aback that he couldn’t say anything for a moment, he just stared, taking in Yutaka’s downcast expression and realizing with a lurch that he was the cause of it.

“What are you talking about?” he demanded at last, his tone halfway between gentle and indignant. He couldn’t believe Yutaka had just said something so completely ridiculous.

“It’s— it’s just, you are incredible. I know why you like Shuya. He’s like you. But me— I’m nothing.” Shinji’s self satisfaction of a moment ago was replaced with a wave of guilt. He never wanted to hear Yutaka doubting his own worth. He definitely never wanted it to be over him. His best friend was always so quick to praise him and reassure him, and Shinji realized he had too often neglected to do the same. Although Shinji liked to hear it, he didn’t really need to be reminded of how awesome he was. Humble and quiet Yutaka, however, definitely did. He laid a hand over Yutaka’s and gave it a squeeze, soft but sure. He felt Yutaka start slightly at the touch.

“I am who I am, yeah?” Shinji said. “And you’re you. And I’m damn thankful for that. You’re funny, and you’re kind, and you’d never hurt anyone. I’m glad we’re different. You’re good, Yutaka. So good. I’m a lot of things, but I don’t know if I’m that.” Shinji had meant every word he’d said, and by the way Yutaka’s eyes were shining, he knew it.

“Thank you,” he whispered. Shinji smiled, a little shaky, and didn’t let go of Yutaka’s hand. His mind skipped back to the other thing he’d said. I know why you like Shuya. He’s like you. His thoughts flashed to his friend, his quick smile and warm eyes. He saw him daydreaming during math, hunched over his guitar, wiping sweaty hair off his forehead after a game— he saw him laughing. Something tightened in his chest. He didn’t know whether he’d hear the sound again.

Shuya was out there somewhere— not dead yet, at least he knew that. Maybe he was trying to find Shinji. Maybe he was hoping that Shinji was trying to find him. Shinji shook his head at the sting that came with that thought. He’d originally thought he’d go looking for all his friends, but the plan that he and Yutaka had come up with was a better idea then running around on a wild chase, a couple of trophies for anyone who cared to shoot. Shinji was strategic if he was anything. Besides, if they succeeded, it would be the saving of all of them. But no matter how much he assured himself he wasn’t abandoning his friend, he still felt like a traitor. Because Yutaka was right, even if he’d spoken around what he knew.  Of course Shinji cared about Shuya— he was his friend, his teammate, always down for a game or an adventure or just a laugh. But it was more than that. He really was like Shinji, and not many people were. People couldn’t help but stare at them, all easy confidence, athletic prowess, grace and good looks. Any envy that was felt was instantly banished at the sight of a grin, full and sincere, that made you feel like the sun was shining directly on you. They were a couple of golden boys— how could Shinji not be drawn in?

Shinji couldn’t acknowledge it at first, even to himself. It was unlike him to be ashamed of any part of himself— Shinji was usually confident in himself and his talents and his wants. But something about this desire made him feel wrong, and he felt a wave of shame and self-recrimination every time his eyes caught on Shuya’s body in the changeroom, or Shuya slung an arm around him and he leaned into the touch, or he imagined what Shuya would do if he just grabbed him and kissed him. He never did. He valued their friendship too much to jeapordize it, and he didn’t want to know what Shuya’s face would look like if he knew there was a darkness in him, a darkness that could tarnish Shuya’s glow.

“Shinji,” Yutaka said, voice soft, and Shinji was aware of how close they were, that he could feel the warmth of Yutaka’s breaths in the space between them. “Shinji, you are good. Don’t doubt for a second that you are.” Shinji smiled slightly, feeling a little unsteady under the heat in Yutaka’s gaze. That was another thing that made Yutaka amazing— he wanted to believe the best of people, even if it wasn’t true. All Shinji knew was that with Yutaka looking at him like that, he wanted it to be. He wanted to be everything that Yutaka saw in him, that he was so sure was there. Shinji grasped Yutaka’s hand tighter, slowly stroking a thumb over the underside of his wrist. He held his breath, waiting for Yutaka to pull his hand away, or for his open expression to shutter shut, replaced with disgust, or worse, pity. He didn’t. Instead, he held Shinji’s gaze, and in his eyes Shinji saw his own desire reflected back at him, and something deeper, something that made Shinji’s heart skip.

Yutaka must want this, or he would’ve pulled away, and everything in his body language was open, trembling, waiting for Shinji to touch him. He didn’t feel any shame, no sense that he was doing anything that wasn’t completely right. If there was darkness in him, Yutaka didn’t see any. He lifted his other hand and trailed a finger down Yutaka’s cheek. It might have not been the time, but Shinji knew that with the way things were going they’d have to make their own if they wanted any.

Well fuck, might as well, he thought, we’re probably all gonna die anyways. But as he reached forward to cup Yutaka’s face and pull him towards him, and felt him respond immediately, tasting like sweetness and trust and relieved desire, he hoped to God they’d live.