Archive of Our Own ^beta

1.

Leon Kuwata cares about his future. What kind of dumbass would he be if he didn’t?

He is the Ultimate Baseball Star, after all. With a talent like that, the future’s destined to have him taking on life front and centre, living out his dreams on the diamond and perhaps on the magazine covers as well – in a fancy car. With a rockin’ partner by his side. And a big, sea-view house with an indoor pool and an outdoor pool too and also maybe a pool table? Leon hasn’t gotten the semantics down yet, but that’s not important. He gets the gist.

The point is, Leon knows baseball is what he was born to succeed in.

It’s just, recently, he’s been thinking it might be nice to be successful in something else, too?

Not that he’s ungrateful for his talent or anything! He isn’t always second guessing himself like Naegi or following people around lamenting how shit it is like Komaeda from the year above (seriously, that guy gives him the creeps). Leon’s thankful for the ease he feels wielding a bat, and for the coveted spot at Hope’s Peak Academy it’s granted him, and for the uniform because it’s actually pretty flattering and that’s always a bonus in his books.

But there is also a very thin line between expectation and suffocation: everybody knows he owes his success to baseball, and so everybody expects it to be all he does. It gets a little stifling after a while and as that creepy bastard would say, constriction is the perfect breeding ground for secrets.

Leon has one such secret: performing a song makes him just as happy as scoring a homerun.

Every Wednesday night, Leon tucks the battered electric guitar he’d bought second hand into a big, dark sports bag – less conspicuous, duh – and sneaks into the practice room in the main building to play to his heart’s content. There’s an upright piano to help tune the guitar and a proper, professional-standard amp he’s still teaching himself how to use; a sleek, black microphone and stand and even one of those cool mirrors with the lightbulbs around the edge which is really helpful for checking posture. The walls have been soundproofed so he doesn’t have to worry about anyone overhearing and since he’d confided in Maizono, she’s even managed to get him a copy of the schedule so he doesn’t accidentally bump into anyone! Maizono is super awesome like that – helpful and talented and gorgeous to boot, and Leon feels insanely lucky that he has a person with her experience to rely on.

Currently, he’s trying to figure out the best harmony to compliment a tune that’s been stuck in his head all day. Leon found a loop pedal buried in the cupboard last week and if he gets the timing right, he bets he can sing along with his own pre-recorded voice as a backing track, like a full song you’d hear on the radio. He has the chord progression ready to go and playing on repeat so far but the usual rule of ‘sing-two-notes-higher-than-the-original’ isn’t quite fitting the vocals. If only he could figure out what’s not sounding right—

The door seems to fling itself open and Leon forgets the song in favour of jumping several feet in the air with an undignified shriek.

“S-show yourself!” He cries, “If you’re an intruder I’ll—“ Shit. Leon realises he doesn’t actually have a weapon. With a flash of remorse, he snatches up the guitar instead. “I’ll knock you dead with this baby, and- and then I’ll shred your eardrums with a kickass solo as well!”

“Silence, truant! Not only are you about to break school curfew, but this threat upon my life will not go without consequences!” Ishimaru shouts in return, jumping out from behind the door with a pink detention slip brandished like a kitchen knife.

There’s a moment where they just stare at each other stupidly: Ishimaru’s expression slowly turning from righteous to perplexed as he takes in his surroundings; Leon feeling increasingly ridiculous with a ¥4000 guitar hoisted over his shoulder like a baseball bat. He begins to lower it to the floor carefully. It knocks into the table on its way down and the sound the amp produces is kinda like a cat got into a fight with a chalkboard.

Shit, shit, shit.

Now with nothing to do with his hands, Leon begins to feel a teensy bit of panic.

There’s no way that someone as sharp-eyed as Ishimaru has failed to see what’s going on here. Someone else now knows about his secret and it’s the fucking hall monitor, no less! He doesn’t bother much with the guy but if anyone was going to get weird about Leon betraying his talent like this, obviously it’d be the stick-up-his-ass, Ultimate Hater Of Resting On Your Laurels and, oh god, what if he tells the rest of the class? What if he tells the Headmaster? Leon is fucking out of here if that happens, and there goes the house, the partner, the indoor pool, everybody’s expectations...

Ishimaru is contemplating the chords still coming from the loop pedal with his eyebrows furrowed and he needed to escape five fucking minutes ago.

“U-uh, thanks for the warning about the curfew, man, I appreciate it! But now that you mention it, I’m so tired I think I’ll head back to my room right this very moment. If that’s all, you best be going too! Wouldn’t want you to lose sleep, y’know, uh, so many halls not to run in, so little time...“ Leon goes to steer the hall monitor out of the room but in the time he was freaking out, the other has apparently become a damn immovable object and does not budge one bit.

“C’mon man! I’m sorry about the threat but I’m not gonna hurt you, I swear—“

“What were you doing in here?” Ishimaru cuts him off, folding his arms. Crap.

“Would you believe me if I said I sleepwalked?”

The other considers this for a moment. Then: “No.”

“Breaking and entering?”

“The door has not been forced,”

“Fuck, uh, alternative baseball?”

Ishimaru stares at him blankly. Leon sighs. “Look around you, dude. Take a guess,”

An excruciatingly-long minute of Ishimaru marching around the room and inspecting the plugged-in guitar, the loop pedal, even the manuscript paper that had been used for jotting down notes. Finally, he turns back to Leon and says, “You’re... composing?”

“Got it in one,” Leon stuffs his hands in his pockets, kicks at invisible dirt on the ground. “Feel free to report me for neglecting my studies or something. It’s whatever,”

Ishimaru holds the paper up to the light, bushy eyebrows furrowed as he squints at it, and the uneasiness is creeping back in. “Hey, I’ll- I’ll sell the guitar. I’ll do extra practice for baseball,”

No response. “I’ll even stop smoking under the bike sheds!”

Still nothing. He’s getting desperate. “Just don’t expel me, please!” Leon begs. “Say something, man! Anything!”

Ishimaru opens his mouth and Leon shuts his eyes, ready for his fate, but no condemnation falls out. Instead, he hears... is that..?

Leon blinks his eyes open in disbelief. Holy shit, the hall monitor is singing.

It’s hesitant in places as he studies the music, but the tune is in there and his voice is surprisingly pleasant in contrast to his usual shouts, coming out as a round, smooth tenor. There’s parts where he even unconsciously slaps a little trill on it – which Leon hadn’t even thought of doing – and damn, is that the beginnings of some vibrato?

He feels like his jaw has gone through the floor by the time Ishimaru makes it to the end of the page.

“Please forgive my uncertainty,” He says, still looking at the paper, “It has been many years since I had to sight-read, but...”

Then, he turns the paper and points to a specific bar on the page. “If you shift to an F sharp here rather than an F natural, I am positive it will eliminate the discordance in the rest of the tune!”

Leon’s mind is reeling. He decides to take it one problem at a time. “So you’re... n-not gonna kick me out?”

“What?” Ishimaru freezes. “Why on earth would I do that? You are almost breaking curfew, but as long as you promise to be more aware in the future I do not see why such action would be necessary,”

“’Cos I’m a fraud!” He blurts before he can stop himself but all the stress has boiled over and it’s true. “I’m supposed to be the Ultimate Baseball Star but here I am, singing ‘round the damn campfire! Everyone needs me to focus on what I’m good at but I can’t even do that. I’m just...” He feels his shoulders sag. “I’m just wasting my time pretending I could ever be anything more.”

Ishimaru gapes at him, eyes wide and incredulous, and Leon feels so, so tired. Maybe he should just go...

“Am I the Ultimate Wordsearcher?”

“What?” He pauses. What the hell...?

“I asked you a question. Am I the Ultimate Wordsearcher?”

“N-no?”

Ishimaru nods. “Correct. Am I the Ultimate Singer?”

“I-I mean, your voice was pretty good, but I think Maizono already has that one...”

“Right again. And if I partake in those activities in my spare time, does that mean I am no longer the Ultimate Moral Compass?”

Leon is taken aback. “Of course not! What the hell are you talking about?!”

“Then I see no reason why the same logic should apply to you! There is no need to sneak around the school and hide your passion as long as you are not neglecting your other studies. If I had not caught you when I did, I would have had to detain you for breaking curfew!”

Leon feels shock run through him – thinks about it for a minute and understanding dawns on him at the explanation, then a warm, tingly feeling that shoots right through to his toes. There he’d been, so terrified of being found out, and for what? Ishimaru seems more concerned that he could’ve been walking around after 10pm.

The tingly feeling turns out to be acceptance. Carefully, still feeling some form of emotional exhaustion, he takes the sheet music from the hall monitor’s rapidly gesticulating hands. “I- I think I get you, man. Won’t stay out so late again, yeah?”

The other boy beams. “Thank you! Wonderful news!”

Leon stifles a laugh.

The next week, after walking proudly across campus with his brand new guitar case on his back, Leon takes out the loop pedal again and thinks about Ishimaru’s amendment.

“Huh... F sharp really does sound better,” He muses, and starts to sing.

Maybe in the big house with the two pools and the sea view, there could be space next to the pool table. Enough space for a kickass electric guitar.

Or maybe it could go upstairs? Maybe he could have a home studio!

Who knows? Leon hasn’t figured out the semantics.

“—and I can do the harmonies! So what do you say? He’ll be, like, totally into it!”

“I don’t know... The girls always get mad when I perform without them...”

“Then screw the girls! Uh, I-I mean– don’t, um, screw the girls, but—“

2.

Aoi Asahina is an act first, think later sort of girl: and as far as she’s concerned, that’s the only way to be.

It’s what she pretty much owes her entire life to, after all! Dolls and dress up and playing pretend, all the stereotypically ‘girly’ things she’d been expected to do when she was younger, are perfectly fine if you enjoy them. But Aoi always felt happier running track, or shooting hoops, or smacking tennis balls so hard they smashed windows on a couple unfortunate occasions. And then her mom had got her swimming lessons and there’s a love story in itself. In all the world, nothing is more comforting than being in the water: the tangy, sweet smell of chlorine, the low hum of the vents, feeling the power in her own body as she glides forward, streamlined...

She’s getting off track.

Point is, if Aoi hadn’t just joined those sport teams as soon as she knew she wanted to – if she had thought about it too hard and started worrying about what the boys or the other girls or even her parents might’ve said – she never would’ve gotten anywhere at all. She’d probably be on track for some boring office job, a boring marriage and a boring little house where she would get so miserable not swimming every day she’d just keel right over and die.

Her motto is ‘do what makes you happy now, ask questions afterwards’ and there’s a pretty sweet deal to be had when you apply that to life at Hope’s Peak. Feeling restless? Don’t worry because the pool’s open ‘till 10pm. Stressed? There’s a little bakery down the street that makes the best donuts in the whole wide world. Lonely? Don’t just sit around and mope – you live with, like, fifteen other super talented people! Go find one of them. Hang out!

Aoi has been feeling more contented since she got here than she has been in a long time, which is ironic considering Hope’s Peak is actually a pretty prestigious school.

To be specific, most of the time it is just Sakura she ends up searching for when she’s lonely. But honestly, can you blame her? She’s gentle and calming and her eyes are really pretty. Aoi’s not immune to insecurity despite her optimism and in the times that her brain gets dumb and starts making her wonder if people might find her ‘boyish’ hobbies undesirable, it’s really good to be around someone like that: someone who’s so visibly strong, who likes the same sort of thing, and holds all those parts of themselves with complete pride. Sakura’s teaching her to be strong, too.

Quite literally at the moment – Aoi’s sat cross-legged in the dojo, watching the training mannequin that’s been set up in the middle of the room get eviscerated by a blur of toned muscles and long, silvery hair.

“You’re doing great, Sakura-chan!” calls Aoi cheerfully. “Give that dummy what’s for!”

It’s another ten minutes before the head on the doll finally gives up the ghost and pops into the air with a flourish, after a particularly impressive kick to its jaw. Aoi whoops and giggles. Sakura gives a modest bow to her fallen opponent, resets the head carefully and comes to sit beside her, mopping a sweat from her brow that seems to have barely broken.

“That was awesome! And kinda scary. You blew that thing’s skull right off,”

Sakura takes a long swig of her protein shake and hums. “Yes. I admit, that was a little much. It is a bad habit of mine to lose control of my actions in a fight, especially over long periods of training,”

“Whaaaat? But all your other moves looked so precise!”

“You are too kind, Hina – but sadly, that does not matter. Even one miscalculation in power, especially with a strength such as mine, could mean seriously harming my opponent. To dishonour the terms of a competitive match like that...“ She shakes her head. “I cannot take that chance.”

Aoi wants to argue that surely the opponent gets hurt either way when faced with Sakura’s unmatchable skill – but the martial artist probably knows best here. Her dedication to protecting others is super admirable, anyway. Aoi leans back on one hand instead and catches a free-flowing thread of white hair to twirl between her fingers with the other. It’s not gotten damp with sweat yet; the strands fall loose and easy across her palm.

“There is something I wanted to show you specifically this afternoon,” the taller girl says after a few routine minutes of deep, meditative breaths. “He will be here soon, so that we may begin,”

“’He’? Oh, is it Nidai-kun? ‘Cos I like him, even though he’s always talking about needing to shit...”

Sakura laughs good-naturedly. “It is not. I believe they will be just as competent, however. He should be here any minute—“

Speaking of which: the door bursts open no sooner have the words left her mouth.

“Greetings, Oogami-san! I apologise if I am late. I foolishly lost track of time studying with Mondo in the library, but I sped-walked here as fast as I was able!”

...Aoi doesn’t want to be mean but she cannot quite hide her disbelief.

Ishimaru is going to train with Sakura? The hall monitor standing in the doorway, still in his stiff uniform and holding a duffel bag in his hand so tightly it looks like he’s never carried it before in his life? That Ishimaru?

He hates fighting! He gives, like, twenty detention slips a day for aggressive hand-holding, let alone an actual physical brawl!

She can’t watch this. Sakura is going to tear him apart.

“Don’t look so shocked, Hina,” the girl in question gets up, tilting her head knowingly. Aoi gapes at her incredulously from the floor. “I have it on good authority that Ishimaru is the perfect person to help me with the issue I explained previously,”

“But... you can’t fight him, Sakura. There’s no way he’ll be able to keep up!” She tries to reason. Sakura just raises her eyebrow. Oh no, no, no. “You’re gonna decapitate him like that dummy!” Aoi squeaks fearfully. Ishimaru looks up from where he was pulling two long, weird-looking wooden sticks from the duffle bag at this, then frantically shakes his head.

“Heavens no! T-there’s no way I’d allow my own death to fall upon the hands of a fellow student and cut off their success like that!”

“Then please, you gotta go! I’ll go find Nidai instead, just save yourself!” Poor, poor Ishimaru...

She’s so caught up in her panic that she doesn’t see Sakura’s picked up one of the sticks, until the tip of it bops her lightly on the forehead—

“Relax,” says Sakura simply. “Today, we are practicing Kendo. I have not spent as much time mastering it across my career as I would like, and Ishimaru is trained. It’s all perfectly safe,”

—Oh.

“Oh. You are?”

The hall monitor flushes. “Ah, not formally for many years, I am afraid, but it is otherwise true. You must not worry though, Asahina-san! This would not even be a proper match, as I’m afraid my old kendougu would not even fit me at present, let alone somebody of Oogami’s size,” Then somehow, as if remembering himself, he gets more flustered. “I-I mean no offence by that! You are simply very muscular!”

“It’s fine. None taken,”

“Oh thank goodness...”

Aoi thinks about it. Kendo’s like ancient Japanese swordsmanship but modernised, right? She guesses it makes sense for someone so focused on rules and tradition to want to study something like that. It’s just weird to imagine Ishimaru doing anything like the moves Sakura pulls off. Still: if her best friend trusts him with it, Aoi will just have to as well.

“So it’s like a play-fight, then. Are you guys gonna hit each other in slow motion?”

Ishimaru grabs the other stick gingerly. He holds it out in front of him, so Aoi can see it looks more like a wooden sword. “Not quite. In Kendo, it is all about patiently watching your opponent and then striking them with this,” he waves the sword, “The shinai, when they least expect it. We will still participate as normal but we must strike with more care as there is no protective gear. One wrong move—“

“—could mean hurting your opponent,” Aoi realises with a gasp. She turns to Sakura, who is inspecting her own sword carefully. “Keeping your cool over a long period of time. So that’s why you wanted to try Kendo!”

“I am glad you understand me,” Sakura nods. Aoi’s own cheeks warm just a tiny bit.

She watches as Ishimaru unlaces his boots to place next to Sakura’s shoes by the door, then shucks off his uniform jacket as well, leaving him in just his rolled-up white pants and a thin undershirt. Both competitors stand several feet apart in the middle of the tatami: then, they both raise their swords slowly, straight forward.

“There are four ways to score points!” starts the hall monitor. The redness in his face is gone, replaced with a steely determination. “You must hit the top of the head, the wrists, the torso or the throat. However, you only score a point if the principles of ki-ken-tai are displayed.”

“That is, mind sword and body,” Sakura adds. “We have to strike with the correct portion of the sword here and keep proper posture as we do so. I am no expert, but I remember reading that it is important to shout when attacking as well?”

“Yes! That is called a Kiai. It shows that you have fighting spirit and gives power to your strike!”

Aoi follows the explanation well as she can (there are so many rules! Though the bit about Zanshin – physical and mental alertness the whole match – does remind her of her own focus when competitive swimming).

Oddly enough, as they prepare, she gets the feeling that they both have something they’re trying to prove.

When the time comes for the match to actually begin, she’s enthralled: they look like two ancient warriors facing off during an intense battle, the edges of the swords held together loosely, a game of patience to see who will make the first move. The room is silent save for bare feet shuffling over tatami as Aoi watches them circle each other back and forth. There must be so much going on in their heads right now. Aoi thinks she would be terrible at it.

Then, suddenly, as if all the tension in the room snaps at once, Ishimaru darts forward with an unintelligible cry and aims his sword right at Sakura’s side.

 “That is a point,” the hall monitor calls, without looking away from where the wood has lightly met her abdomen. Aoi remembers him saying that discipline is so important in Kendo as a strike with the wooden sword represents death by a real one. “It is a best of three.”

Aoi nods dumbly. She can’t quite contain her awe: she barely even saw him move. Even Sakura blinks in surprise, then nods appraisingly and returns to the starting position.

Who knew the hall monitor had it in him?

Ishimaru wins the first match after a deft hit to Sakura’s wrists – Sakura gets a hit in as well but instinctively drops her posture and therefore insists that the point is forfeit. However, the martial artist gets the hang of it by the second match. Aoi watches with admiration as she moves so lightly despite her strength, carefully measures every hit she gets to Ishimaru’s head or stomach or throat. By the end of it, Aoi’s even started refereeing the competition: there’s an old scoreboard and some chalk in the back of the dojo that she rescues, starting up a tally under both names that begins pretty evenly-matched but ends up favouring Sakura in a landslide.

“I’m glad I could assist you in your training, Oogami-san!” Ishimaru says after they agree to call it a day, sweaty and out of breath. He almost looks a little saddened. “I admit I had been hoping that the effort I put into Kendo would be able to match up against raw talent such as yours. However, now I understand how hard you are working to build upon your own natural gifts, it is no wonder I lost!”

Aoi gasps, affronted. “Don’t say that! You guys were both incredible!”

“I thank you sincerely, Asahina-san. But it is Oogami who is truly impressive!”

Sakura just smiles - bows humbly and goes to grab them some water.

As the three of them sit there, Sakura and Ishimaru discussing how Kendo techniques could factor in to Sakura’s regular fighting style, Aoi wipes the chalk from the board and revaluates.

She still prefers her motto of acting first, thinking later. However, seeing the thought and dedication that went into each move across the match – the glow of satisfaction on her friends’ faces when it payed off, and as they congratulated each other on a game well played...

Maybe there’s some merit to it after all.

Right then, Aoi’s stomach rumbles loudly. Of course, for most things, there really is no point in waiting around.

“Hm,” Aoi slaps her thighs, then jumps up. “You guys must be starving after that! I know I am! But where, oh where, could I find something to eat?”

“You want to order pizza again, don’t you,” Sakura says flatly. Aoi giggles.

“Well, since you offered...”

“—calm down. There’s enough time to try it again before everything needs to be ready,”

“I know, I know, it’s just– how did it go so wrong?! We followed the instructions exactly!”

“Ah, perhaps Owari’s recipe was a bit off? Fourteen lemons is a little suspicious—“

3.

Celestia Ludenberg prides herself on being an intellectual and an opportunist above all.

When it comes to a game, of course actively participating is always preferable – nothing matches the rush of figuring out your opponent before they’ve figured out which way is up, and there is no true reward without something to lose, as any gambler worth their salt will surely tell you. When participating is not possible, however, pleasure may still be sought in watching from the sidelines. A game is a game and Celeste enjoys scrutinising the players objectively as well, analysing why they make the moves they do and feeling smug when she knows she could have done twice as well in half the time. It’s good practice: keeps the eyes sharp and the mind sharper.

Watching whatever game Oowada and Ishimaru are playing is the equivalent of sharpening the mind with a wet sponge.

They are engaged in some sort of study group with Kuwata, Ishimaru ticking and crossing Oowada’s homework thoughtfully and the biker himself forgoing his wrong answers to stare dumbly at Ishimaru instead, looking wholly as if the hall monitor could kill a man right there and Oowada would be fine with it as long as he could get a kiss on the cheek for his silence. The enjoyable part of observation is usually the subtlety of others’ tells but if that idiot was any more forward, he would have to write ‘let’s make out!!!’ on his shirt and then cart Ishimaru off for a night in some Love Hotel with a ring on his finger.

The worst part is Ishimaru is seemingly oblivious to the whole thing. “Kyoudai— I am so proud of you! Your handwriting still leaves something to be desired but your method for the last five questions was impeccable!” He gushes, clapping his hands onto Oowada’s shoulders. Celeste raises an eyebrow when she notices the biker’s ears turning red. “Surely now you appreciate the things you can achieve after just a few weeks of hard work?”

“Y-yeah, that’s pretty cool, huh?” He sputters bashfully, then shakes his head. “It’s all thanks to you though, man. I don’t know where I’d be without ya believin’ in my stupid ass!”

“Oh, he believes in your ass alright,” mumbles Kuwata. Good lord.

Celeste cannot help from being a little disappointed. Oowada has been a certified c-rank human from the beginning, all callous and crass and devoid of dignity wearing that silly pompadour everywhere he goes, but she’d genuinely had some hope for Ishimaru against all odds: in the right circumstances, perhaps, he seems as if he could’ve been quite cunning. Alas, it appears the list of candidates for an intellectual equal in her small pool of classmates grows ever smaller. If her predictions are correct (and they usually are) soon Kirigiri and Fujisaki will be the only hope for functioning brain cells in the entire class.

“Tea for my lady?” asks Yamada as he enters the classroom – the Ultimate Doujin Artist is a strange case in that he should have been a c-rank as well. However, he has proven to have his uses (he has figured out exactly the correct time for which to brew a cup of tea) and he is incredibly loyal, willing to listen to every one of Celeste’s tales with rapt attention. He once illustrated a large scale, dramatic rendering of herself as the ‘immortal gothic sorceress of probability and darkness’. Celeste is rather fond, in her own way.

She shakes her head politely. “Thank you for your offer, underling. However, I believe my appetite is quite non-existent this afternoon,”

“Wha-wha-wha-what?” Yamada screeches. “What is so foul in this building that it has upset the stomach of the Ice Queen herself?!”

Celeste sighs, then inclines her head at the disastrous study session until recognition dawns on the other’s face. He nods sagely. They spend a few moments squinting at Ishimaru, now half leant and pointing at something over Oowada’s trembling shoulder.

“They are quite stupid, are they not?”

“Indeed,” Yamada scratches his chin, “Even out of my impressive catalogue of works, it is one of the more convoluted mating rituals I have ever witnessed...”

Celeste giggles despite herself. “It is flattering of you to call it a mating ritual in the first place when it is more like watching a cat and a dog trying to crack the Voynich Manuscript. Honestly, some people are so undignified,”

“Ah... Yes, the Boy-Nicked Manuscript! I-I, uh, know it well—“ Yamada starts to bluster, but Celeste quickly loses interest in favour of studying the game once again.

Every battle of the mind and wits has a turning point – the moment in which you think you have your opponent figured out and either you are correct or you are not. The player obviously has two choices: they can either press onwards, reaping the rewards of their gamble if they are right and feeling the humiliation of loss if they aren’t; or they can lie in wait, a snake in the long grass, gathering more information on their prey before they finally decide to pounce.

Oowada has chosen the former and Celeste watches with bated breath. “Hey man, whadd’ya say you come over to my place this weekend to celebrate? Feels like we ain’t hung out just us in ages and I, uh, like spendin’ time with ya. Alone.” He determinedly cranes his neck to look Ishimaru directly in the eye. “That is, if you got the time?”

Cards on the table. Will he win or will he lose?

Ishimaru’s brow furrows. His cheeks are dusting ever so slightly pink.

And there it is!

The moment victory is clasped from the hands of—

“Wow, Kyoudai! Your newfound dedication to studying is truly admirable!” says Ishimaru. “I’ll be sure to bring all my notes in case you wish to read ahead!”

Celeste feels a pain on her forehead as her hand, metal finger cuff and all, comes into contact with her face.

Somewhere across the classroom, Kuwata is groaning. Yamada whispers, “Surely he is not that oblivious?”

“Mon Dieu,” Celeste replies, “I wish I was lying when I said that he is,”

She and Yamada watch as Oowada gives Kuwata a withering glare, disheartened, then accepts the hall monitor’s response with a grim smile. How anticlimactic.

But there is something she noticed...

The flush on Ishimaru’s cheeks before he’d spoken is curious, as if he’d understood what his ‘kyoudai’ really meant but then had forced himself not to consider it. Of course, it could always be an unrelated reaction – a simple matter of uncontrollable biology – but Celeste did not become the Queen of Liars by attributing one’s tells to mere circumstance.

What strange behaviour? She’ll keep this information to herself for now. Perhaps this little game of theirs is not so boring after all...

“—please hold that box with care, Fujisaki! I will have you know that is the exact set of dominoes I used to best a Venetian prince at Pai Gow!”

“Ah, sorry, just... Are you sure all this stuff is necessary? I’m not certain if gambling’s really the right mood...”

“Nonsense. Entertainment is essential, and I would much rather play a game that is mentally stimulating than embarrass myself in that strange, brainless contest with the dots and the plastic sheet,”

“Y-you mean Twister? I’ve never played but I’m sure it’s not that bad—“

4.

Five years prior, if you’d have told Takaaki Ishimaru that he’d be living his life a single father in disgrace, he would’ve said fuck you, Dad. I told you so.

It’s not exactly a surprise, after all. Night after night spent on the phone with secretaries after reading about some decision gone sour in the news was foreshadowing enough – and on the off chance the poor worker would be able to put him through, the call to action always fell on uncaring, complacent ears anyway. Takaaki thinks that his father may have been a kind man once but he was certainly never a good one: his desire for power and wealth always went further than their comfortable upbringing could provide and the day he got into politics was the day Takaaki stopped giving a shit about him, after he stopped caring about what bills he pushed or what bribes he took as long as it promised a fast track to the top.

Of course, that doesn’t actually change anything. He is an Ishimaru through and through. His kid is an Ishimaru through and through. The public aren’t going to care how close they were with his father; now that Toranosuke Ishimaru has gone into hiding like the coward he is, they need someone to blame – and why wouldn’t his little remaining family make perfect the scapegoats?

So, Takaaki hates his father. But, deep down, more than that, he despises watching his son grow up to look a little more like him each day.

Things have been... tough, since the scandal hit the news. The Ishimarus weren’t exactly living the lap of luxury beforehand: Toranosuke had sent them cash instead of showing them love and even a hateful man would not deny the extra funds, but most of that went to the rent and the ever-rising price of gas and the health insurance – all that boring stuff you have to consider as an adult – rather than anything that could be considered indulgent (not that Takaaki has ever been an advocate for needless junk around the house anyway). Regardless, their life had been fairly comfortable and mostly private other than the occasional ‘has anyone ever told you that you look like the Prime Minister?’ in the street. They even used to be able to drive up to the reservoir in the countryside every summer for vacation, to camp and fish and hike in the surrounding mountains. It was— nice.

There’ll be no time for the reservoir now.

It is a small mercy that the Chief of Police even let Takaaki keep his job. Now, the guys at the station look at him as if he’s got something to hide, as if he’s nothing more than his father, and he hates it, hates how he is driven to pick up every overtime slot he can manage to prove them wrong, hates how even though it earns enough money to keep them afloat through the torrent of debt, the wide-eyed look on his kid’s face when he gets home at strange hours in the morning makes him wonder if he’s screwing it up just as bad as his own parents did.

It’s kind of like being a tightrope walker, except the audience all hate him and if he falls, there’s a nine-year-old too good for this shitty world that gets dragged down as well.

Takaaki is trying. He really, really is.

Shit- what he’s trying to do right now is fry last night’s chicken into a poor imitation of yaki udon for dinner, but it keeps getting stuck to the bottom of the pan and burning. Has he seriously forgotten to oil it again?

Takaaki lets out a quiet cry of frustration and begins to scrape it off, mourning the extra time the dishes will take to wash later thanks to his error.

If there is anything useful his father taught him, it’s that genius won’t get you anywhere in the long run: only those who perpetuate their own natural ability with hard work and effort will be able to truly survive. He knows his Kiyomi would tell him he’s doing great regardless, God rest her soul. Kiyotaka would probably do some of his kendo moves and try to beat the bone-deep weariness from his heart with his bare hands.

Takaaki sighs deeply. Begins stirring in the chopped mushrooms. “No rest for the wicked, huh?” he mumbles, to no one in particular.

BANG!

“Waaaaaaaah!”

There certainly is no rest. Right that moment, Kiyotaka bursts through the front door with his book bag clutched flat to his chest, face red and blotchy with tears.

“Hey, hey, hey!” The cooking is forgotten in favour of dropping to the floor and scooping his child up in the tightest hug he can manage without hurting him. “Kiddo, what’s wrong? Did something happen at school?”

No response – just wailing and trembling and a growing wet patch on his shirt. Takaaki feels his heart crack at his son, normally so bright and energetic, sounding so torn apart at the seams.

“Kiyotaka. You have to tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it, okay? Do you understand?” He tries again, runs a hand through his kid’s shortly-cropped hair. Kiyomi was always better at the emotional stuff. He silently prays he is not fucking this up even worse.

Eventually, Kiyotaka shuffles back from his arms, staring at the floor, face covered in salt and snot. He hasn’t let go of the book bag yet—Takaaki furrows his brow. Is that...?

His son thrusts the bag in front of him like it’s poisonous. In thick, black marker, somebody has scrawled ‘ISHIMARUS SUCK!!!’ across the front.

“I d-didn’t see it, I s-s-swear! I only saw someone wrote it when Igarashi-san laughed at me in the playground, and t-then- and then—“

Kiyotaka suddenly slaps his little hands over his mouth, shaking his head like a ragdoll.

“And then what, Kiyotaka?” Takaaki says carefully, calmly, like he is trained to during interrogations: hide whatever rage their words make you feel inside. The information is the priority.

Round, red eyes start to fill with tears again. “She said... She said her father lost his job because of something Grandfather did! She said it’s your fault, and it’s my fault, and everyone h-h-hates me!” His voice cracks feebly towards the end and he rips himself out of Takaaki’s reach, instead scrubbing at his face with sleeves that are well-past damp.

The words are utterly jarring yet painfully familiar: they’re what he’s been saying to himself since this whole mess started. Still, hearing them out loud is a different story, and it hurts something deep in his heart to see how hard they’ve hit Kiyotaka. He probably never even considered it that way, being a naïve little kid, and yet he’s probably going to be hearing them for as long as Japan needs their villains to boo and hiss at from the stalls.

Takaaki raises his hands, approaches the rigid form of his son again until he can swaddle him again in his weary arms. There’s nothing he can say in comfort that wouldn’t make him a hypocrite.

“It’s going to be alright,” is what is murmured gently instead. “We can make it through this, okay?”

Takaaki wonders if he isn’t convincing himself, too.

Eventually, Kiyotaka settles enough to stop crying but shuts himself up in his room soon after anyway – that’s to be expected. It’s alright. He needs time. Takaaki focuses on heating some chicken noodle soup instead (the yaki udon unsurprisingly burnt while he wasn’t attending it), stirs the warmth through meditatively for a while, and then carries a bowl towards his son’s room.

“Kiddo?” He knocks tentatively. If earlier was interrogation, this is sort of like hostage training; approach with caution, in order to minimize panic in the suspect and therefore the subsequent threat towards the innocents as well. “Dinner’s here, okay? Try and eat something if you’re up to it,”

He’s not expecting Kiyotaka to actually come out straight away — let alone swing the door wide open, back ramrod straight, eyes still red from crying but burning fierce with determination nonetheless.

 “Father!” His son shouts after a breath so deep it visibly puffs his chest, “I have decided from here on out that it’s my duty to fix Grandfather’s mistakes! I’ll- I’ll restore honour to our family name, so Igarashi-san’s father can get his job back! So you don’t have to live in shame, and so n-nobody hates us anymore!”

Takaaki is very lucky he doesn’t drop the soup.

It’s a very idealistic way of thinking definitely fitting for a nine-year-old, he notes dazedly. The part of his brain that sounds like his Kiyomi is busy lecturing that a responsibility like that is far too much for a child to bear, that he has to minimise those goals before they plant their roots in his head and stay put. A louder part though, a simpler part, clings to the shaky hope in his child’s eyes like a raft in the middle of the ocean – thinks, if he can fix it, maybe I can fix this too.

Takaaki blinks in surprise for second more, then makes his decision.

“I know you’ll do it, kid. Your mother would be so proud of you, you know?” That’s a pretty lie. He knows what Kiyomi would’ve thought.

But deep down, selfishly, he can’t bear to see his child cry any more. Kiyotaka is smiling wide under the praise, and Takaaki’s tired soul feels it, warm and hopeful like the sun.

“—can’t reach the socket from here, but you’re really tall! D-do you mind plugging it in for me?”

“Hmph. I suppose I can seeing as nobody else possesses my superior height. However, don’t expect me to stick around for the enjoyment of some dim-witted idiot. Who even thought it was a good idea to throw a—“

“Eek! Not so loud, someone will hear us!”

“You just shouted yourself, did you not—“

5.

Mondo Oowada is kind of used to failing. It’s... Yeah, it’s as depressing as it sounds, honestly.

His dad hadn’t exactly been interested in pushing for academic success even when he was around (interested in pushing for Mondo to be out of sight, out of fuckin’ mind, more like), and it’s not like Daiya had time to make sure he was doing his homework between leading the gang and trying to put enough food on the table for two people and one over-enthusiastic dog.

And don’t get him wrong! That’s not meant in a sob story way, like those chicks on the talent shows with the crocodile tears who go on about how their goldfish died when they were eight, or something. Mondo doesn’t think his childhood was totally awful – the Diamonds and Daiya and even Chuck made sure of that – but it wasn’t a fairy tale either and kids who start off in the shits have the system rigged against them, kick and scream and cause trouble ‘cos it’s easier to get angry then admit you’re scared and hopeless and don’t trust enough to ask for help.

Mondo is good at getting angry. It kind of scares him sometimes. He’s working on it.

The point is, middle school was crap, high school was shit, his report cards have a history of making honour students weep and he hadn’t been expecting Hope’s Peak to break that trend. Honestly, the only reasons he went was because a delinquent like him getting into some fancy academy would’ve made Daiya piss his pants laughing – what kind of title is Ultimate Biker Gang Leader, anyway? – and to make the most of the free, cushy dorm rooms.

The highest estimate in the gang had been one term before he got expelled. Takemichi, sly bastard, had jokingly betted on one week.

It’s been over a year. Mondo does not know what the fuck is going on.

Maybe it’s something to do with how his practical exam had just been Kirigiri’s dad watching him do rings around the parking lot on his bike? Fucking weird day that was, but he wasn’t gonna line up to complain at something so easy.

Or maybe, reluctant as the Mondo of middle school would be to admit, it’s more to do with all those assholes in his class he calls friends. When you spend each day surrounded by people who, despite all odds, seem to genuinely believe in you, starting fights and skipping class gets a lot harder. Pity is a heavy sensation to shake, makes him feel weak in the way Chihiro’s trying to coax him away from, and when he feels weak he lashes out – and Mondo just said he doesn’t start fights anymore so really the only option is to be a decent student anyway, capiche?

It’s weird. Of course the Crazy Diamonds are his family and he’d take a bullet for each and every one of them; but Mondo’s never had real friends outside of that setting before, people who aren’t all related by a shitty start in life and a desire to do anything that might set them apart from all the other assholes with nothing to their name.

Now, Mondo listens to a nationwide pop sensation bitch about her acne breakouts on the regular and plays Mario Kart with the star pitcher of a world-famous baseball team and can laugh at the richest teenager in all of Japan tripping on his shoelaces without getting thrown in the dungeon, or some shit. And he finds he doesn’t want to disappoint any of them anymore – finds himself chugging energy drinks in his dorm room the night before a big test so he can skim over his notes and letting Chihiro quiz him on boring stuff like the sine rule because it feels nice to have expectations on you other than ‘ride your bike’ and ‘smash this window’.

So picture Mondo’s surprise when he walks into class the Monday morning after a crappy math test and reads the big, red B on the top of his paper in utter giddy disbelief. Never once, in his whole life, has Mondo passed a math paper – let alone well.

It feels... really fucking good.

Leon peers over his shoulder as he ambles into the classroom. Once he reads the news, the baseball star claps him hard on the back. “Hell yeah!” He hoots, “Knew you had it in you. You’re the man, Mondo!”

“He’s the Mando,” Hagakure corrects from across the room.

“You’re the Mango, buddy!”

If that turns into a nickname, he is going to punch something. Still. The pride in their dumbass voices is genuine and Mondo can’t help but grin.

“Fuck yeah I am!” He boasts. “See this abs? Huh? Whadd’ya think these muscles were fuckin’ built on?”

“Math,” says Leon. “The brain’s the sexiest muscle of all, dude.”

Hell yeah.

Asahina, who had been celebrating her own grade with Oogami, raises her eyebrows as he brandishes the paper. “Good job, Oowada-kun! I hope you’re gonna thank Ishimaru for all those study sessions, ‘cos I know he could totally kick your butt if you don’t!”

—Shit.

“Please do,” adds Celeste, “They were most frustrating to watch,”

He hadn’t even thought of his bro yet in all his excitement! What kind of kyoudai is he!?

Taka is... He doesn’t know how far he would have made it in this place without Taka. That thoughtful motherfucker must’ve been feigning sleep when Mondo was in his room one night, rambling about how he wanted to do better in class but didn’t know how to start – because the next day, he’d innocently suggested they study for their upcoming test paper together and by the time Mondo had noticed the connection, they were already up to the armpits in algebra. It’s true he would’ve failed it without his bro’s constant encouragement. Maybe he should get him something nice, to show his appreciation?

In the same vein of course, there is. Uh. The other problem, as well.

So what if he does really, really, really appreciate his bro? He’s kind and passionate and pretty (and shockingly ripped under that uniform) – what’s not to like? Besides, even though they hated each other at first, his Kyoudai’s gotta be the first person who’s managed to fit together all the broken pieces of Mondo Oowada and still thinks the finished picture is worth it anyway. In return, Mondo treasures every little detail Taka tells him like gold dust: things about his past and his present, his dreams, his fears. Even all the warnings to get a minimum eight hours of sleep and throw used gum away instead of tacking it under the school desks – in his defence, where else are you meant to put the stuff when the trash can’s all the way over there?

Daiya used to wax poetic whenever he got a new girlfriend, would float around the house humming cheesy romantic ballads and saying shit like little bro, always remember that true love’s completely selfless. Mondo wouldn’t go that far, but...

Romantic or not, surprisingly, he doesn’t mind. Just having Taka by his side makes him feel like he could take on the world.

Actually— speaking of Taka, where the hell is he?

Mondo voices this. There’s a low hum of acknowledgement around the class.

“I thought it was weird!” muses Hagakure. “Mango said fuck, like, twenty-seven times—“

“I ain’t said it more than fuckin’ twice!”

“—so he’d totally be in jail by now if Ishimaru-chi was here!”

Fukawa giggles nervously. “Y-you said it again, i-idiot,”

“Hey, the hell’s that supposed to—“

“He’s probably just busy running an errand!” Naegi blurts, “I’m sure he’ll be back soon,”

He grumbles noncommittally (‘cos that goth bitch is really lucky he got interrupted when he did), but then Mondo considers it and it does make sense: Taka’s always doing helpful shit around school, so maybe he’s just held up rescuing a cat from a tree or something like that? He nods at Naegi in agreement and resolves to settle down at his desk until his bro arrives.

...Except the teacher bustles in by herself. The lesson starts. Kyoudai’s nowhere to be seen.

The usual twenty minutes of morning announcements. Nothing. Then a mind-numbing hour of evaluating test scores. Hell, a whole damn hour-and-a-half of incomprehensible Japanese literature essay and there’s still no sign of him. By the time lunch break hits, Mondo can barely contain his nerves over the dark, ominous feeling that’s started crawling up his spine, pride completely forgotten, and he’s up and out of the classroom before the bell finishes ringing, before he can notice Chihiro’s concerned eyes on his back.

He can’t help it: Kiyotaka Ishimaru has never missed a single class as long as he’s known him. Something has to be seriously wrong for him to skip half a damn day.

The usual lunchtime spots aren’t worth checking – something tells Mondo that if the classroom was a no-go then going on a wild goose chase with someone who might not even be there isn’t going to bring up anything useful, so he forgoes them in favour of heading straight to the dorms and banging his fist on Taka’s door, three, solid thumps.

“Bro? You alright? I thought I was gonna see ya before now,”

A minute passes with no reply. Mondo kicks at the shitty carpet impatiently, picks at the embroidery on his jacket. Is he even in there?

“I know you’re in there, Taka,”

More silence. He’s about to go and search somewhere else, when... there’s the sound of those fancy ass boots shuffling, then the handle turns and the door opens just a crack. Huh. Bluffing does work.

“Oh thank fuck, man. I was kinda freakin’ out when you weren’t in class but I wanted to—“ and a slither of Taka’s face appears in the gap, and Mondo’s words die in his throat.

Red pupils matching the red, puffy skin around his eyes, and under that, dark, hollow shadows; a grim, hard-set line for a mouth; and it’s clear he’s hunched over in contrast to the usual ramrod-straight posture even from what little of his body is visible. Above that, he seems determined not to meet Mondo’s wide-eyed stare. The guy just looks... disturbingly empty, like all the passion and enthusiasm Mondo has come to expect has bled out, and he doesn’t know what the hell could’ve gone on overnight to cause such a dramatic change.

What the fuck happened to him?

He must’ve said that last bit out loud. Taka’s mouth forces itself into a wide smile that even a baby would see right through and he speaks fast. “Nothing happened! I was just feeling a little under the weather so I decided to take the day off. It is vital for the body to be at its peak performance in order for the mind to follow suit! Not to worry, kyoudai – I can assure you I have been keeping up with my studies from my room,”

If anything, that response is more concerning – but pushing the lie would be useless.

Mondo switches tactics. “I’ve got the notes from class. If you’re catching up on work, you’re gonna want those, yeah?”

Taka seems to think for a moment. He reluctantly nods, sticks out his hand.

“Nope, no, you’re gonna have to let me in, ‘cos you said it yourself, right? That my handwriting’s shit. I’ll need to be there,” He asserts, “Y’know, to translate it for you,”

The best way to get through to people is by appealing to what’s most important to them. Taka clearly can’t argue with his own logic and finally, the door opens fully. He sits down at his desk without another word. Mondo awkwardly shuffles in after him, shuts the door behind him with a soft click and plonks himself down on the bed unceremoniously.

He always forgets how clean and orderly the other’s room is in contrast to his own. Not even a single sock is out of its drawer. He wonders if the posters on the wall get the crinkles ironed out of them when he travels, or if he just rolls them up in those special cardboard tubes instead.

Eventually, as soon as it becomes clear that Mondo can’t decide how to carefully breach the topic, Taka turns and stares him dead in the eye. “May I please see the notes,”

“Hm?” There’s a graph tacked to the far wall that looks kinda like a dick...

“The notes, kyoudai. I need them for my studies,” He pushes. Mondo shifts uncomfortably.

“Well, you see, this ain’t really about the notes...”

 “Mondo!” the words are so sudden it makes him flinch, “I remind you that I did not allow you into my room under false pretences. If you were just going to lie to me about that valuable information then I will have to ask you to leave right this second.”

Ouch.

Mondo stand abruptly. He isn’t feeling so careful anymore.

“Then why’re you lying to me, huh?” his voice sounds strained even to his own ears. “Your poker face is worse than fuckin’ Yamada’s. I’ve seen ya sit an exam with a damn’ fever, punk, so don’t give me that ‘under the weather’ crap!”

The shorter boy sputters angrily. “A-are you telling me I am not allowed to be unwell? I am not a child! I am fully capable of deciding whether I can or cannot attend a lesson myself, thank you very much, whether or not you believe me!”

He’s standing defiantly too now – the empty dullness in his face replaced with fiery indignation. Mondo sneers, stalks forward.

“Bull. Shit, Kiyotaka. The hardass I know would turn up for algebra in the middle of a god damn earthquake even though that’s a fuckin’ stupid idea, and he’d sure as hell drag me with ‘im too. So don’t treat me like you think I’m that dumb!” They’re so close now. Mondo can see the conflicted rage and distress painting itself all over his kyoudai’s face, can count the tear-slicked spikes of his long eyelashes. “I know something’s up with ya’ and I know it can’t be as bad as you’ve convinced yourself it is. So just drop the act already and tell me what the hell is going—“

“Maybe you do not know me as well as you’d like to believe!”

The silence afterwards is suffocating.

Taka stares wildly for a second more; then slopes back into his chair, his head tucked miserably to the rumpled front of his uniform.

Mondo wipes at his face with shaking fingers. Takes several deep, calming breaths because he doesn’t get angry anymore. Pretends those words didn’t sail like poison arrows right into his chest, and starts to rationalise.

Taka’s lashing out because he’s obviously hurting over something. That’s normal. Mondo did that for months and months after Daiya died, refusing to tolerate anybody who even glanced at him like they knew what he was going through because it was so inconceivable for anyone to understand all the grief and the guilt and the shame. What helped him most then wasn’t people telling him he had to talk; it was his friends. People like Chihiro and Taka, who just sat there patiently.

They’d waited until he was ready to open up. Not only that, but they showed him they were willing to listen.

Fuck. He’s been going about this all wrong, hasn’t he?

Mondo moves, slowly and obviously so as not to spook him, to lean quietly against the desk. It’s only now that he can see what’s actually on it:

It’s the math test. In red ink is a large, round C.

He thinks he’s getting it, now.

“Maybe I don’t know you as well as I’d like,” Mondo sighs. Taka’s frozen, staring resolutely at his desk – with uncharacteristic lightness, Mondo puts a hand on his trembling shoulder and squeezes. “An’ I’m sorry for yellin’ at ya. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to, yeah?”

The other boy sniffs wetly.

“But I’m gonna be here if you do feel like talking. That’s a man’s promise, so don’t you go thinkin’ that offer’s gonna leave the table,” He considers his next words carefully, ‘cos it still feels like there’s something that needs to be said. What did he need to hear, this time two years ago? What would’ve helped him the most? Mondo thinks hard for a minute, as Taka sniffles. What he eventually decides on is this:

“And... and you don’t gotta act like you’re fine all the time either. You’re always telling me it’s manly to cry, right? Then it’s manly to let yourself feel like crying sometimes, too. You ain’t weak for that,”

It’s oddly cathartic.

Mondo lets a quiet wave of satisfaction wash over him. He’s happy to leave it at that. The focus switches to kneading the tightness out of Taka’s shoulder – eventually that starts to feel stupid, so he just hops off the desk and pulls him into a sort of half-hug.

A quiet mumble comes, muffled from where it’s pressed into his stomach. “I don’t think you’re stupid,”

“...What?”

“You said that I think you’re dumb. I don’t. I think you have a very impressive work ethic. If you utilise it fully, I believe you’ll go far,”

That makes him warm and giddy, like honey going over his brain. The B grade he has folded into his pocket almost feels as if it’s gone suddenly luminous. It’s... really strange, to have done better than his bro for once – especially in terms of grades.

But that’s also a pretty shitty way of looking at it. Taka isn’t some robot. He shouldn’t have to be top of the class every single day just to feel like he’s worth it, and Mondo’s own success shouldn’t be measured on beating him either.

“You’re gonna go far too,” Taka starts to mumble some rebuttal, so Mondo repeats it louder. “Hey! You’re gonna go far too, ya hear! One average grade ain’t gonna make you a failure, so don’t let it be the end of the whole damn world!”

He goes quiet again. Then, after a beat, Taka stands up, abrupt – hugs Mondo back fully with that break-neck enthusiasm nobody ever quite seems used to.

“Thank you, bro! For everything! Y-you have no idea how much it means to hear you say that!”

Oh man, is he crying again? Mondo’s cheeks are burning. He really hopes they’re happy tears.

The thing is, Taka’s so used to straining for perfection, he sets himself up for failure and disappointment from the get-go – because life’s a real bitch sometimes. Things are always bound to go to shit at some point.

On the other end of it, Mondo Oowada has known what failure and disappointment feel like since the day he was born.

They’re used to it – but maybe they don’t have to be.

Mondo thinks they balance each other out pretty nicely, after all.

“—wait, I didn’t get confetti! I had a vision this will all go, like, horribly wrong if I don’t get to throw the confetti!”

“You fuckin’ ruin this for him just ‘cos ya wanna chuck some ripped-up paper and I swear I’ll turn you into confetti myself,”

“No you won’t. Murder would totally bring down the vibe of this thing,”

“Just shut up, will ya? He’s gonna be here any second—“

1.

Kiyotaka Ishimaru is having a really, really bad day.

First, he woke up at six am instead of his regular five-fifteen, meaning he had to forgo both his morning exercises and his breakfast so there was still enough time for his scheduled English language revision. Then, he’d gotten so caught up in the reading that he’d almost arrived late to class. Finally, he had already been feeling flustered and fidgety from his out-of-sorts body clock; but those emotions only got worse because his peers had barely been able to look him in the eye all morning!

When Kiyotaka had asked them all politely what the matter was, he unsurprisingly got no proper answer. Kuwata wouldn’t even let him go near the second floor over break – despite him urgently requiring resources from the library.

“Sorry dude! There’s, like, something super awful going on upstairs!” He had insisted. “Souda did an experiment with a metal thing and another metal thing and totally caused a gas leak, you know how it is,”

“W-what?! That is highly dangerous! We need to alert the authorities immediately—“

“No nononono, it’s not bad gas— it’s. Uh. Laughing gas! Yup, we’re all laughing so hard up there! Ha ha ha! I should go check it out. Nope, don’t talk, you stay here. You don’t wanna end up pissing your pants!”

“Excuse me?!”

Kuwata had bolted before he’d even had time to question what that meant. Or why he looked so sweaty and unwell – and when he tried to go up the staircase anyway Hagakure had seemingly appeared out of nowhere to steer him back down, starting a conversation about the pros and cons of black-market organ donation that Kiyotaka was too bewildered by to question.

Something is definitely going on.

Kiyotaka is starting to get that sinking feeling again: like the one he’d get in a new school, when kids would start randomly laughing and he’d finally understand that the only common denominator was himself. Like he’s had a good thing for too long and everyone has realised it – like no matter how hard he works, things will always go wrong for him and his family in the end. Of course, like those times in childhood, that dread will not be allowed disrupt him from his duties. It just...

It hurts, a bit. The people at Hope’s Peak are nice – friends, even. He doesn’t know what he has done to upset them but he does know he wants to fix it.

So when he returns to last period to find an unevenly-folded note left on his chair, it is simply too tempting to not to look at. Carefully, mindful of the... stickers(?) that have been used to tape it shut, he unfurls the sheet. It reads:

KIYOTAKA ISHIMARU

GO TO THE PREFE REFERCTORY DINING HALL ON THE SECOND FLOOR AT FOUR THIRTY PM ALONE

Then, in red marker:

IF YOU DONT COME I BET SOMETHING REALLY BAD WILL HAPPEN SO YOU BETTER COME

He squints. Barely legibly, right at the bottom:

sorry about the dog stickers i ran out of tape

Kiyotaka balks.

I-is this a threat? He had been hoping that perhaps it would be an explanation for his classmates’ strange behaviour, but if what is written is actually true—

Is this canine-loving fiend planning to do some serious wrong? What if it’s some sort of trap to cause him harm? Oh god, what if somebody else innocently goes to the dining hall by accident, and they get killed in his place?!

There is no other way about it. As the Ultimate Moral Compass, it is his duty to go and investigate. Even at the cost of his own safety, he must see what this villain is after and apprehend them before they can cause any harm to him or his peers!

As four-thirty draws nearer, Kiyotaka feels himself grow more and more uneasy. He can barely focus enough to read through his political history papers without his brain skipping anxiously over each line – let alone open the math book that has been causing him pain since that unforgivable test result. As soon as the clock hits four-twenty, his patience snaps. Maybe he can take them by surprise by arriving early! Wait— if they know who he is, will they be expecting that of him?

As quietly as he can manage in his heavy boots, Kiyotaka hurries from the classroom and approaches the staircase. Neither Leon nor Hagakure stop him this time, so perhaps his friends have moved on from whatever he had to be excluded from – in fact, eerily, nobody is out in the halls at all. The fiend must have orchestrated their plan to be this way. Kiyotaka winces against the light echoes of his own footsteps and carries on towards the dining hall door.

This is it. He has his math textbook clutched tight to his chest as a potential weapon should the fiend try to attack; with a shaking hand, he knocks on the wood. It creaks open with painful slowness, revealing nothing but darkness. Somebody must have turned the lights off to fool him – and his own heartbeat is loud enough that Kiyotaka misses the shuffle from inside, the end of a sharp whisper.

Deep breath. The book is clutched in one hand now. Kiyotaka steels his live-wire nerves and slams the door fully open with the other, strides boldly inside, and at that moment there’s a terrifying chorus that starts up, surrounding him from all directions.

Hands on his shoulder– something brushes against his cheek—!

“Surpri— OH GOD, MY NOSE! WHAT THE FUCKIN’ FUCK!”

The lights go on abruptly.

There’s Hagakure and Fujisaki, each sheepishly holding a bag of party confetti.

Behind them... is the entire rest of his class?

And to his left, cradling a nose that looks to be dripping blood...

Oh god. Kiyotaka has just beaten Mondo upside the face with theoretical mathematics.

There is a moment of complete, horrified silence. Then several things happen at once.

Kuwata starts laughing so hard he snorts; Maizono yells at him for being disrespectful; Fujisaki awkwardly cheers, “Surprise?”; Togami hisses something about wasting his time and Kirigiri grabs him by the collar before he can skulk away.

Mondo is letting out a very colourful and imaginative string of expletives from where he is now crouched on the floor.

With an anguished cry, Kiyotaka falls to his knees and bows so deeply that his forehead almost hits the cold, hard ground.

“Kyoudai! I- I am so incredibly sorry! I don’t know what is going on but I received this—“

“B-bro—“

“—this very threatening letter and I thought I was about to be—“

“Slow down, will ya?”

“—murdered and then I felt something touch me so I believed it was the same fiend and I’msososorryIhityoupleasedon’thatemeforever—”

“Relax! I ain’t fuckin’ mad! ‘S my fault for scarin’ ya anyway, ya just...“ Mondo trails off. Uneasily, he turns to look Kiyotaka directly in the eye. “...The hell do you mean you thought you were gonna be murdered?”

Kiyotaka straightens up, confused. “The note said to come alone. And that something bad would happen if I were to not do so,”

“...Oh,”

“And the ink was red, which is often interpreted as blood,”

Mondo begins to look slightly miserable.

“Oh for god’s sake,” mumbles Asahina despairingly, “I knew we shouldn’t have let him write the note,”

“W-what the fuck do ya mean?! There were fuckin’ puppy stickers on it! Who the hell covers a death threat in puppies?!”

“As if that d-doesn’t make it c-c-creepier, like some kind of cutesy s-serial killer—“

“You’re the fuckin’ creepy one!”

It is all getting very overwhelming, and he is thankful for the calm manner in which Oogami approaches him as they argue. “We are deeply sorry about the misunderstanding, Ishimaru. It was meant to be a surprise party,”

It was?

He feels as if he might be going through some sort of emotional whiplash.

“A party?” Oogami nods patiently. “B-but it is not my birthday until the end of August!”

“We know. However, we also thought it would be nice for everybody to do something before summer break as we did not get to celebrate it last year. Also as otherwise not everybody would have been available.”

“Or willing,” scoffs Togami. Naegi hits him with some confetti.

“There is no need to thank us, but you should thank Oowada. It was all his idea,”

As he finally takes the rest of his surroundings, Kiyotaka thinks that now he is definitely going through emotional whiplash. There is quite a lot to see.

Balloons have been strung up everywhere. He recognises Kuwata’s guitar and two microphones set up at the back of the hall. There’s a large, white-frosted cake standing proudly on the kitchen counter, and has Celestia even set up some sort of games table?

It hits him that while he was earlier believing they disliked him, in actual fact his peers cared enough to put in the effort of getting this whole celebration together, all without his notice. Nobody has ever done something so thoughtful for him in his life. Growing up, he never had any friends to want to wish him a happy birthday – let alone ones who cared enough to throw a party in advance, and his father? While they do acknowledge their birthdays, neither Ishimaru ever had enough time to spare that they actually ended up doing anything at all.

It’s overwhelming now for a different reason. Hot tears brim at the corners of his eyes, and Kiyotaka barely notices it as he starts to cry.

“T-thank you all so much! I apologise for my ungrateful initial reaction, but please know that I appreciate your kindness immensely! It truly means the world!”

Fujisaki comes to sit next to him. He pats him gently on the head. “It was our pleasure, Ishimaru-kun! I hope you have a really happy birthday,”

“Yeah, happy birthday for later, bud! Sorry about the laughing gas thing!”

He nods dazedly. To his surprise, even Ikusaba is there. She gives a minute smile and adds, “I hope your day is enjoyable,”

Now holding a box of tissues, Mondo looks down. Bashfully, he mumbles, “Have a great fuckin’ day, man. You deserve it,”

Kiyotaka stares at him for a moment: the fall of stray hair over his face, the pinkness under the long spike of eyeliner across his cheek. He looks some more, and decides it is his theoretical birthday. For once, he will allow himself to do whatever he wants.

“I thank you all sincerely for your words,” Kiyotaka beams – then whirls on the biker so fast he almost skids across the floor. “And you!”

“M-me?”

“You are coming with me to the medical office!” Kiyotaka shouts. He stands sharply, gets a hand around Mondo’s arm, and heaves. “I may not have intended to injure you but I must still face the consequences of my actions. I will return shortly to this very kind and lovely party once my kyoudai has received proper medical care! In the meantime, please have fun!”

And with that, he drags a sputtering biker out of the dining hall before either him or his other peers can argue.

They make it to the nurse’s room without much issue (apart from Mondo’s half-hearted protests. Thankfully Tsumiki is not here today, as he imagines his shouting would give her quite the scare). Kiyotaka pushes Mondo towards the patient’s bed.

“Sit,” He orders. “I will find something for the swelling,”

Mondo huffs. Flops down like a dog with its tail between its legs.

Luckily – or perhaps worryingly – none of the supply cabinets get locked all that often, and Kiyotaka is able to scavenge some fresh tissues, painkillers and a cold-pack in the fridge without much searching. He returns to Mondo dutifully. Mondo, for his part, hunches, brow furrowed at the floor.

“Kyoudai, you will need to face me so I can inspect the damage and treat the wound,”

“It don’t even hurt anymore,” the taller boy protests weakly. “Ya shouldn’t ditch your own party just for my dumbass nose. I’ll just get a rag or something and we can go back,”

“If it is broken then it must be set immediately or I risk long-term damage to your face. It is quite a nice face, so I’d appreciate it greatly if you let me be thorough!”

“W-what?”

His own face is most certainly red now, but he refuses to relent. Kiyotaka raises his eyebrow impatiently. The cool-pack is spilling condensation into his hand. “Well?”

“I—“ Mondo stares intensely, eyes wide, for another excruciating few seconds. Then, carefully, he lowers the hand he had clamped over his nose. “Y-yeah, okay. Go ahead,”

“Thank you,” Kiyotaka nods. He gets to work.

Thankfully, it doesn’t seem to be broken. He leans close. Gently presses at the tender skin around Mondo’s cheeks and nose and carefully inspects how long it takes for colour to return – it seems to be a tiny bit swollen but the bruising would be far darker if the bone was damaged, so thankfully no big issue on that front. Next is the area under Mondo’s eyes on the off chance that there is an orbital fracture and Kiyotaka watches shakily as the other’s eyelids flutter closed for that part, long lashes lightly tickling his fingertips . An orbital fracture is truthfully very unlikely in this situation – but he prays Mondo doesn’t realise that, prays he can be allowed this indulgence. The skin there is surprisingly soft in contrast to the rest of the tanned, more weathered parts of his face. It feels nice under the rough callouses of his own hands.

Finally, when he is certain everything is mostly as it should be, he inspects the bleeding. The blood flow looks to have pretty much stopped but old, dried blood is still cracked across his mouth, down his chin. A stray droplet seems to have travelled all the way down his neck, disappearing under the hem of Mondo’s tank top. For an embarrassing second, Kiyotaka can’t take his eyes off it.

He wonders how far down it goes.

“Nothing is broken, luckily,” Kiyotaka clears his throat. “I’m going to clean off the blood now,”

Mondo opens one eye, stares at him, all lazy and lavender. He only hums in response. Kiyotaka nods, mostly to himself, and grabs a cloth and bowl to fill with warm water.

It’s all very therapeutic despite the fact he is not the one being cared for. The quiet thrumming of the hot water pipes, the tinkling of the excess liquid on the cloth as he wrings it out, the reassuring tempo of Mondo’s deepened breathing, sends a tingly sensation down his spine like he’s entering a trance. Kiyotaka feels more relaxed then he has in a long time as he dabs at the rusty flecks around his kyoudai’s firm jaw, wipes under his nose.

Mondo lets out a genuine laugh when he has to brush the cloth across his lips, then flushes and mutters something about being ticklish. There is a familiar little squeeze in his chest when he does that. Kiyotaka is fed up of pretending it isn’t there.

Then comes time to get that one, long trail of copper – but in this thick, hazy silence, he finds he can’t quite do it. Like ripping off a bandaid, Kiyotaka says, “Did you really plan the whole party?”

At the same time, he places his trembling hands against Mondo’s neck and starts to clean.

“I, uh, I did. Yeah,” Mondo says quietly, voice a little deeper from lack of use. Kiyotaka can feel the deepness of it vibrate through his hands. “Hah. Was a little tough to get everyone coordinated but I guess they don’t call me leader for nothin’,”

“I- I still cannot believe you’d put that much effort in for me. I am truly humbled by it, Mondo,”

He scoffs, “It’s not like I did all the work. Swimmer Girl and Muscle Chick did the cake, though they fucked it up a couple times—“

“Language—“

“—I know, I got it. But anyway, Enoshima was on decoratin’. Hell, Naegi even got Rich Boy to help set it all up. I didn’t really do shit if ya think about it,”

Another pause. He’s wiping circles at the dip in his clavicle, now mostly just for the thrill it sends up his spine.

 “I suppose. But none of it would’ve happened without you. Nobody...” He gets right to the edge of the tank top and freezes, “Nobody has ever cared for me like that before. I mean it,”

“Y-yeah, well. I saw how stressed you’ve been since that dumb math test even though we sort of talked about it, an’ I don’t like when you’re sad, okay? And... and...”

Very carefully, Mondo moves his hand. Places it over Kiyotaka’s own, so it’s flat against the warmth of his chest.

“Am I readin’ this wrong?” He whispers.

Kiyotaka feels like his heart may burst itself right out of his ribs.

“No,” He murmurs, “I dare say you are not,”

Mondo Oowada uses his other hand to bring his face upward, close enough that their noses brush, closer than he has ever been to another boy before. And there in an empty medical room on Kiyotaka’s theoretical not-birthday, he kisses him: soft and sweet and right on the mouth.

Here is the thing: Kiyotaka has only kissed one other person in his life, and that was a girl in middle school who did it as a dare and then cried straight after. Affection has never come easily because there was never anybody for him to get that familiar with. The first person to touch him so casually – his first true friend and ironically, first true love – was Mondo. And now, like a tying a neat little bow, he’s surrounded by him: Mondo’s smell, Mondo’s arms, the faint, still-coppery way he tastes.

He hopes it’s not too obvious that he hasn’t got a clue how this actually works.

Mondo seems to be the Ultimate Psychic as well, because he pulls back and looks at him like he’s trying to figure something out.

“You are good with this, right? ‘Cos we don’t have to if you ain’t comfortable,”

“No, no, I definitely want to continue!” He blurts – feels himself burn with how eager he sounds. “I apologise if I’m not very good at this, I’ve, uh—”

“Never done this before. Thought so,”

Kiyotaka is mortified. “Is it that obvious?!”

Mondo laughs, full-bellied, and buries his face in the crook of his neck; he is suddenly embarrassingly glad the summer is too hot for his usual high-collared jacket. Like this, he can feel warmth, electric right down to his skin.

“It ain’t a bad thing, I just don’t wanna mess this up by rushin’ ya. Just... try to follow my lead and you’ll be fine, yeah?”

He finds that is something he can agree with. “O-okay!”

Mondo takes his face out of his collar, pecks him lightly under the jaw as he comes up again. For a minute, he just stares – one arm slung around his neck, the other fiddling with the fabric at his waist. With him still sitting on the bed, Kiyotaka is ever-so-slightly taller for once. It’s strange.

Then, Mondo covers his mouth with his own again and his mind goes blank full stop.

It’s a little tricky to get the hang of at first and a lot of his own brain jumping off the rails like a runaway train – it’s many chaste, brief kisses before he gets how he’s supposed to apply pressure, how to get it to start feeling nice. When Kiyotaka gets bolder and begins initiating them properly himself, Mondo seems to take it as a go-ahead. He pulls him in deeper, tilting his head a little and rubbing light circles into his back through his shirt and it sends shivers through him, gets a contented sigh in return when he figures out a good thing to do with his jittery hands is tease them through the loose, dark hair at the back of Mondo’s head.

Of course, it’s not perfect: there’s a few times when he squishes the biker’s nose by accident (probably worse on his end, what with the bruising), and when Mondo manages to get his top button undone and presses an open-mouthed kiss to Kiyotaka’s Adam’s apple, he downright squeaks – which makes the other laugh too hard to continue for a whole horrific five minutes.

But it’s... good. It’s really good, doing this with the person he cares for most, finally feeling as if he is allowed to be cared for in the same way. He pushes himself closer into the vee of Mondo’s legs, feels hands tighten over his hips, and lets himself fall deeper and deeper into the sensation of it. This is nice. This is better than nice. This is...

“Hey, did Oowada actually die in here—" calls Hagakure from the doorway. "Oh, epic! Love is love, guys!“

Kiyotaka snaps out of his daze in favour of wanting to crawl into a hole and never see the light of day ever again.

Mondo appears to have the same idea. “I-if you spread this shit around, you'd better believe you’re fuckin’ dead!”

“Relax, Oowada-chi, I was just being a good pal and checking you weren’t still bleeding out your nose! Normally I’d charge a hefty price for my silence, but...”

“I swear to all things holy—“

“Okay, okay, I see where I'm not wanted, jeez. I'll just tell the others you were doing CPR, or something. Y'know, mouth to mouth!” He gives a cheerful thumbs up, then lopes out of the office with such speed that Mondo has no chance to disentangle himself and chase after.

Kiyotaka sighs heavily. Goes to look at the clock and blanches so hard it must be visible.

“Mondo, what time did we get here?”

He scratches his head, still irritated. “Uh, I don’t know. Like, four-forty-five?”

“No wonder they were worried! It is five-thirty-seven pm!”

“Aw, crap. They’re gonna have eaten the whole damn cake,”

He doesn't sound all that distressed. Kiyotaka does feel bad about being gone for so long but on the other hand, Mondo is gorgeous and compassionate and the best person he's ever known -- plus his fingers are still massaging comfortingly over Kiyotaka's hipbones. It's kind of hard to worry after that.

They do make it back to the party eventually, after attempting to fix themselves as much as possible in the bathroom (or, in other words Kiyotaka attempting to fix both of them while Mondo sat on the counter and looked smug). Perhaps nobody will notice the difference, with a little luck.

Hagakure winks conspicuously as soon as they get inside. Everyone immediately notices.

At the games table, Yamada groans and slides a considerable pile of cash to Celestia.

There’s still a little bit of cake left that Mondo demolishes, and Kuwata and Maizono have prepared a duet that everyone cheers for – apparently “this one goes out to our baby birthday boy, for knowing when the hell to use an F sharp!”. Asahina even presents him with a card that he's made to promise not to open until his actual birthday and he fondly notices she has covered the envelope in doodles of kendōka with their swords. He finishes the evening insisting on helping with the clean-up, scooping stray bits of confetti into a bag as Fujisaki laments about the turtles who might swallow it up if it doesn’t go in the recycling.

Over all, it’s the best birthday he’s ever had. After, Mondo walks him to his dorm room, hovers outside uncertainly. He looks worryingly like he might explode.

Then, Mondo shouts:

“If it wasn't obvious, I fuckin' like ya, so do you wanna fuckin’ DATE ME or WHAT?!”

Kiyotaka doesn’t know what to say, mostly because he thought they already were.

A few hours ago, Kiyotaka Ishimaru was having a really bad day – but the thing is, he’s starting to realise it isn’t always that black and white. There can be a baseball player who’s also a musician and a talented person who works hard and a gambler who bets on him but isn’t afraid to call him an idiot. There can be a father that he loves but who also stopped buying him birthday presents seven years ago, and there can be a delinquent gang leader who tries his best despite the odds and cares about him just as much as he is cared for.

Mostly, he is realising that things can go wrong no matter what he does; but they can also go right again. The day was really bad and now it’s really, really good.

But tomorrow is a whole new animal and, well. There's always a chance to grow.

Kiyotaka takes Mondo’s hand and smiles.

(Bonus:

On Kiyotaka’s actual birthday, Mondo drives them on his bike to go hiking around the old reservoir, just like he used to as a child. Takaaki bought them a disposable camera for ‘making memories’. Mondo has been wasting the film with chin-angled self-takes all afternoon.

Kiyotaka tries to teach Mondo how to skip stones across the water. He goes to fling a particularly well-shaped one – but as he lets go, the camera he had dangling around his wrist goes soaring straight into the water with it. The two watch as it floats hopefully for a second – then, mournfully, it succumbs to the current like the Titanic.

“Guess that’s one way of makin’ a memory,” Mondo sighs.

Kiyotaka watches it disappear with wide eyes. Then, with feeling:

“FUCK!”

Silence. Mondo gapes. He is maybe just a little bit proud but the shit-eating grin is on his face before he can stop it.

“Ishimaru,” He tuts, “Watch your damn fuckin’ shitty crappin' language!”)