Archive of Our Own

Makoto sighs.

Byakuya's fingers are thin and fast and Makoto just watches them as they swiftly unbutton his shirt. It's as if he couldn't get it off fast enough, tearing it down his shoulders while simultaneously leaning down to suck on his neck.

Makoto lets him. His fingers lay low on the outseam of his own jeans, which are in danger of vacating his legs in a similar fashion to his hoodie and his jacket and his shirt.

Makoto lets Byakuya take all he wants. Makoto thinks he may love Byakuya. You let the people that you love borrow things, take up space in your mind, and take you over.

Right?

He knows Byakuya doesn't love him. He's no use to him, he speaks of finding someone to continue his "line" with, among the despair-riddled ruins of the world. That could NEVER be him. He's not a feasible partner for him, and that fact holds them both hostage. 

For now, though, Makoto is a warm, willing body that his partner seems to appreciate. When Byakuya touches him, he mentally launches himself into the alternate universe where he's so so much more than just that.

Makoto trills in pleasure to egg the taller man on, and the sound is like an on-switch because the grip on his hips turns bruising, and Byakuya leans back up to kiss him. Hard. He feels his own teeth digging into his lip, noses bumping rudely as Byakuya's thumbs trail down Makoto's stomach to dip slightly below the rise of his jeans.

"You're mine, yeah?"  Byakuya huffs against him, as Makoto lets affirmations stream out of his reddened lips 

"Yes, only yours, forever. Yours ."

"Good." Byakuya growls, nearly biting into the seam of Makoto’s jaw, "Because I want you. What happens when I want something, Makoto?"

The utterance of his first name sends a thrill up his spine; and coupled with the warm breath against his ear, nearly makes him fall over.

"You get it."

Togami smiles, Makoto can tell because the upturn of his lips is mapped out against the sensitive skin on his neck.

"Correct."

Makoto is about to guide Togami's head back up, and pull him back down to kiss him, but they both jump when someone knocks obnoxiously on the door.

"Yoo Togami dude, you in there?"

Byakuya collapses with a frustrated sigh, forehead gently lying against Makoto's.  He doesn't move for a second, except for removing his fingers from Makoto's waistband and letting them fall to his side.

"You should answer him." Makoto hisses after Hagekure knocks again, "Or he'll come in-"

Makoto feels Byakuya press into him, a full-body slouch that pushes him into the wall. It’s almost angry, Makoto can feel the tenseness in every single muscle. Makoto’s pulse jackhammers up, and he starts to say something, but-

"Yes!" Byakuya stands up straight, looking away from Makoto as if ashamed. Makoto’s face burns, a bout of unnamed and foreign anger rising in him. He’s just so angry . "Just a moment."

Makoto takes that as a cue to throw his hoodie on because there's no way in hell he's re-buttoning his shirt(Byakuya ripped a few buttons off), and he scrambles to the armchair near the window, opening the book on the coffee table.

"Finances through the ages."

Stimulating.

Byakuya wastes no time in showing his annoyance by ripping open the door and sending Hiro the most burning glare that Makoto has seen in a while.

"What?!"

"Jeeeeez man. What has your knickers in a twist?"

"You are interrupting me. You didn't schedule a meeting with me as far as my planner says, so pardon me if I'm not laying down palms."

Makoto got a hold of the planner once, scandalized to see their rendezvous' marked in blocky handwriting, simple “Makoto”s scattered throughout his day, nearly overflowing out of Byakuya’s free time. 

He never told him that he read it. He's too embarrassed.

"The uh, soup kitchen? It ran out of soup."

"What am I supposed to-" 

Makoto sighs, standing up. "I got it."

"Oh hey! When did you get here?"

Makoto shakes the horribly boring book in the air, before frisbeeing it onto Byakuya's well-made bed, earning him a less-intense glare from his lover, "I was reading."

"Cool!" Hiro pumps his fist with genuine enthusiasm and Makoto isn't annoyed at him anymore. "Let's go get some soup!"

Makoto doesn't think that Hiro knows what a soup kitchen is. He's more into planting trees and putting out fires than management, but he's been tied to home base a lot more lately, throwing him out of his depth. It sends him knocking on doors like this often, but it's likely he doesn't try Byakuya's that much, seeing how he reacted today. Or maybe the aggression was just because he robbed him of a fuck. Who knows?

"See ya toga-homie."

"Do not call me that."

"Bye." Makoto says shortly, over his shoulder. He doesn't see his friend's face for long but  he looks a little stricken, in a way that Makoto only seems to be able to perceive. He slams the door after them wordlessly.

"He's in a bad mood, isn't he?"

"He doesn't like being interrupted." He waves a hand and Hiro looks exaggeratedly over his shoulder at the closed door.

"Was he reading too?"

Makoto cringes, adjusting his hood. "Um. Yep."

"The guy always loved his reading." Hiro nods sagely. Makoto is unwittingly torn back 3 years, his head down on a cold table as pages turn near his ear, nearly lulling him to sleep.

"Why do you come in here?"

The words were sharp, but Makoto could sense the genuine spark of curiosity beneath the frigid exoskeleton. He lifted his head. Byakuya wasn't looking at him, eyes trained too intently at one word in the book to actually be reading.

"I like the company." Makoto was lying. Byakuya made him cry every time he tried to have a reciprocal conversation. "And the quiet."

"You don't seem the person to like either." He flipped a page sharply. Makoto fears that it will tear.

"I feel safe with you." Makoto offered; a complete truth, but one he doesn't think Byakuya will understand. Especially since he doesn't get it himself. He shouldn't feel warm inside when the taller man catches his gaze because what’s likely to follow is a verbal lashing nearly as painful as he expects his execution would be. Maybe his execution would consist of Togami shooting an arrow through his heart, straight to the point. Cruel. 

"That's hilariously stupid of you. I thought you were smarter than that."

"Why? You wanna kill me?"

Togami shut his book with a snap. "I want to win, and I will do so at any expense barring my own life. I could very well kill you if I felt it suited me."

"That doesn't answer my question. Do you want to kill me? "

The shake of Togami's head was so minuscule it couldn't have been purposeful, an unconscious movement. 

"I don't care about you."

"Okay." Makoto rested his head on his arms again. Byakuya's breath hitched strangely, at Makoto's apparent disregard for his safety. "Wake me up if anything happens."

Byakuya did end up waking him up later, hours later, demanding him to get up and go back to his room.

Hiro opens the door to the main office, all of Makoto's friends and co-workers milling around, engrossed in their work. Hiro leads him to his desk, sitting him in front of the memo that he received, detailing a produce shortage. Great. Amazing.

Makoto crushes the memo between his fingers, already frustrated. There are people who depend on the future foundation for a hot meal and a safe place to eat it. He wonders how long Hiro must have been putting this off.

Hiro must sense Makoto's annoyance coming off him in radio because he twitches and slowly slinks away. Makoto picks up the phone, punching in the first number angrily.

He isn't usually an angry person, but he can still feel the ghost of Byakuya's fingers on his ribs, and his hoodie's metal zipper is resting frigidly against his uncovered collarbone. 

Byakuya makes him angry . And he hates it. 

They'll have to resolve this later.

......

Approximately later, they're totally spent, laid next to each other in bed. Byakuya's already rolled away to stare at his phone, one pale shoulder an offering to the moon (the one thing left untouched by her, something she couldn't destroy). Makoto takes the time to look at him. He observes how unkempt his hair can become, and marvels at the fact that he gets to be the one to see it, he gets to be the one to mess it up. How different he looks without his glasses, too. Byakuya told him once that he feels vulnerable without his glasses. For months, he’d wear them while they slept together, or at least put them back on immediately after. He used to leave, too. That hurt more than most things would. Makoto felt used. Well, he still feels used, these years later, but back then he felt used and discarded. At least now he knows whatever this is is exclusive, now. Byakuya lets him stay in bed with him after sex, and sometimes they even wake up together, shifted into an embrace during sleep. 

Byakuya sighs, and flops onto his back, snuffing his phone and throwing it between them. “I apologize.”

Makoto literally jumps, caught off guard. “For?”

“My behavior this week has been somewhat curt. It isn’t your fault. I’m just really stressed about the colony, the neo-world starting next month- it’s all just-” 

Makoto is stunned. He knows that Byakuya trusts him, possibly more than anyone left alive, but he doesn’t usually apologize or confide.

He closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, “What if it doesn’t work?”

“What?”

“All of this it’s- It’s ridiculous. We finally detained the despairs and for what? To make them nice again? They’re the most vile people I’ve ever- they scare me . Genuinely.” 

Makoto shifts onto his side, looking Byakuya over. He’s scrutinizing the ceiling as if finding flaws in the paint job. Of course he is. 

“I think it will go well,” Makoto says defensively, and Byakuya sniffs.

“It better. Don’t expect me to bail you out if it doesn’t.”

That unnamed, creeping, suffocating anger comes back all at once and Makoto turns away, not answering him. Byakuya is silent for a few moments as well, before Makoto hears the bed shift. All at once, he’s surrounded, drawn back into an embrace. Makoto can feel Byakuya’s heartbeat thrum serenely against his back.

“I would. Bail you out.”

“What?”

“I’d do anything for you.”

That can’t be real, the voice vibrating against his skin and rumbling through his bones cannot be real. Those words are something that Makoto would tell himself , parroted through a mental marionette that acts as a poor facsimile of Byakuya Togami. That’s the only possible explanation for things like this, things that Byakuya wouldn’t do or say.

He’d never believe it, coming out of the real Byakuya’s mouth.

“Oh.” Makoto says softly, frustrated tears rising in his eyes, “Okay.” 

A kiss pressed to his shoulder, “Why can’t we just kill them?”

“Because- that’s murder?”

Another kiss under his ear, “The princess nuked her entire country.”

Makoto elbows him off, and Byakuya laughs with a huff, falling back again.  “Not sexy?”

“Not at all.” Makoto giggles a little when Byakuya prods his side in a way that he knows is ticklish. “Stop!” 

He does, with a sigh and a wide-arched flourish of his hand, “You ticklish people, so vulnerable.”

The anger thrumming under Makoto’s skin is wildfire, flaring up again as his smile fades. These domestic, familiar moments are so painful he nearly goes numb, unable to feel anything but a strange misplaced rage. He's made of glass, just on the edge of shattering, splintering and exploding into shrapnel that will be hard to pick out of Byakuya's pretty face.

He tries to conceal this, though, and Makoto is pretty sure that Byakuya has never been on the receiving end of his anger, therefore his ignorance spares him from ever having to feign excessive concern while Makoto shares his bed. Outside of it, Byakuya would likely just walk away, calling him foolish and over-emotional. 

“Are you okay?”

Again, Makoto is shaken from his stewing. It’s not as if Byakuya hasn’t uttered the question before, but Makoto is similarly caught off guard every time.

"Are you okay?"

Makoto yelps, jumping up out of his seat, wiping his eyes not-so-subtley on his jacket sleeve. Byakuya, who was probably asking off-handedly, (parroting Makoto’s familiar phrase back at him knowing that it's courtesy in his 'new social circle'), stops in his tracks. Makoto stares at him, not speaking. Byakuya stares back, ramrod straight and looking somewhat shell-shocked.

"Fine!" Makoto exclaims un-convincingly, "Good, actually. You?"

“You- you are crying?” 

“I’m fine. What did you need?” 

Byakuya shrugged, pushing his glasses up his nose in the way that made Makoto want to swoon. His eyes stayed on Makoto unwaveringly, too, as if looking away would have dire consequences. 

“Because if you don’t need anything, I- I’m busy so.”

“There’s been news of a hostage.” He said slowly, reaching into his coat pocket. He withdrew a badly creased memo as if it had been overturned in anxious hands one too many times, “I was thinking that- I could go get her.” 

Makoto raised a shoulder, “I don’t care. Be careful.”

“Why were you crying?”

Makoto didn’t want to tell him. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to know.

“I miss my family.”

He told him anyway. Byakuya smiled.

“Excellent.”

Excellent, he thought about that word he was left with for weeks, while Byakuya was missing. When he found out what he was really doing, saw a glimpse of his sister (only for her to run away again. He tries not to worry too much), he finally understood. He had to sit on his hands and wait for things to resolve themselves without him, and he was probably angrier at Byakuya than he ever had been before. (And he was more relieved to hear his voice than ever when they finally regained contact).

It was supposed to be a nice gesture, lost in translation and bad luck. Byakuya always overestimates himself, anyway. He fancied himself a murderer, an aristocrat, a loner. He never follows through. 

He never follows through. 

“Makoto.” Byakuya’s voice is rough and tired, but insistent too, and Makoto blinks hard.

“I’m fine,” Makoto replies automatically, the words spilling thoughtlessly over his lips and dropping like stones. He can tell Byakuya’s not buying it. He shifts until he’s quasi-sitting up.

“You’ve been- distant. For a while.”

Makoto snorts. A flash of offense flashes over Byakuya’s face.

“What?”

“You’re calling me distant?”

Byakuya pauses, trying to gauge what’s best to say next. Makoto hates that he has to think so hard about it. Makoto loves that he tries. Makoto hates that it’s been years and he still doesn’t understand why Makoto has nightmares. Makoto loves that he still holds him through them.

He hates him so much because he’s never loved anyone more. 

“I’m just- concerned.” Byakuya finally decides, and fury eats away at Makoto’s frontal cortex, fiery and hot and painful.

“Since when did you care?!” Makoto snaps, sitting up straight.

He doesn’t have to put up with this. He doesn’t. He shouldn’t have to wait for Byakuya to drop the act and break his heart. 

He rockets out of bed before Byakuya can even respond, feeling around in the dark for his clothes. 

“Wait.” Byakuya says, sitting up blearily, “What?”

Makoto pulls his pants on wordlessly.

“Makoto?”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

Byakuya fully straightens up, almost unnaturally fast, a long spine struck with electricity, “Wait.”

“I can’t . I can’t wait anymore, I can’t just wait for you to get tired of me and leave.” 

Byakuya tilts his head, bemused "Why on earth would I ever get tired of you?”

“I don’t want to be- be your fling as you wait for the right woman to come strolling into your life!” 

Byakuya stays silent, looking at him, owlish and awkward without his glasses. Makoto throws his shirt on and by the time he’d struggled it over his head, Byakuya is already standing up. 

“Don’t,” Makoto says, when he opens his mouth, only in his boxers. Makoto has to look away.  

“Don’t. I know what you want, and it’s not me. I’m just here , right?” 

“No.” Byakuya scoffs, “Are you really that stupid?”

“I’m not stupid!!”  Makoto screams, it's shrill and so unlike him that Byakuya actually has worry written all over his face. He's seen it out of the corner of his eyes, this expression, but never worn so openly. Byakuya is used to apologies, or a shove or a laugh, but never a fight back. "You know I'm not stupid."

"I do." Byakuya says cautiously, "You are not stupid."

"Don't patronize me."

"I'm-!" There he is, Makoto savors the glimpse of anger that flits over his face. He tries to cover it up just as quickly as it appears. "I'm agreeing with you, Makoto. You aren't stupid, this is just a stupid conversation."

“Is it? Why do I feel like it’s one we should have had two years ago?”

“Maybe we should have because maybe you wouldn’t be freaking out right now.”

“Freaking out? I’m freaking out- ?”

“Frankly, yes!” Byakuya grabs Makoto roughly, spinning him around to face him. Makoto’s chest is heaving, his heart beating fast and skittering against his ribs like it’s desperately trying to find a weakness in its prison bars. “I think- you’re panicking, not thinking straight-”

“Don’t. Do not touch me.” 

“We just-” Byakuya breaks off, gesturing at the bed with an angry sweep of his arm, then slamming his palm back against his shoulder.

“Say it,” Makoto says tightly, trembling in Byakuya’s grip, two sets of fingers tighten on his shoulders.

“What?”

“You never say it. “

Byakuya blinks at him, looking absolutely flummoxed.

“We fucked , ‘Kuya. That’s what we do. We fuck, and then we wake up and we don’t ever talk about it. I don’t want that anymore.” 

“Do you-” There’s a confused crease between his eyebrows, “Want to- speak about it? Are you- I mean- It was- good? And-”

Makoto flushes to his ears, because that concept isn’t a break-up conversation,  “No. No um. No. Don’t- talk about it.” 

Byakuya takes a deep breath, very precisely squeezing Makoto’s shoulders, and then releasing him altogether. “Okay. So. What is the issue ?”

“It’s okay.” Makoto asserts, dragging himself forward and placing a hand on his friend’s warm cheek, “You’ll be okay without me.” 

“That is not an answer,” Byakuya says matter-of-factly, his usual tone curling up at the edges in a way that makes him sound almost nervous. He slowly reaches up to hold Makoto’s hand against his face, “What are you saying?”

“We need to move on from this. We’re friends. We’re good friends.”

“This doesn’t make any sense.” Byakuya says, and it’s chilling, “This isn’t consistent with your behavior.”

“And you confiding in me, and talking to me like an equal, and showing concern and- and actually acting like you maybe could possibly actually have an iota of romantic feelings for me one day is not consistent with yours!”

Byakuya bristles, drawn up to his full height in anger. Sometime during Makoto’s outburst, Byakuya had grabbed his fingers so hard that they turned bloodless and white, and Makoto squeals in protest, trying to rip away.

“Is that what you think of me? Do you think I’m some heartless thug , who’s been using you-”

“I’m not accusing you of anything! I’m not blaming you! I knew you, I knew how you were when we started this- I let you use me. I asked you to. It’s not your fault! Let me go -”

“Do-” Byakuya startles at the way he’s gripping Makoto as if he didn’t realize that he was even holding him. He lets go as if Makoto had become searing hot, and takes a hurried step back. He has this absurd, hurt look on his face.  “Do you really think of me like that?”

“What?”

“I knew how you were” He repeats, “How I am? What does that mean? Someone unfaithful? Cruel? Emotionless?”

Makoto hesitates, trying to read this reaction. It isn’t what he was expecting. The more seconds pass, the more Byakuya seems to shrink.

Makoto finally tries to get something out, assure him that, no no that’s not it at all you can be so lovely but it’s so confusing and the more affectionate you become the more I’m afraid that it’s fake , but Byakuya holds up a hand. It’s always been effective in getting him to stay silent. 

“I understand now. Please leave immediately. I’ll gather any of your belongings that reside here and get them to you by noon tomorrow. Thank you for your time.”

It takes every bit of mettle that is stored in Makoto’s body not to laugh. Byakuya used his fucking customer service voice on him, half-naked, at 2 in the morning, ending their arrangement and likely fucking up their friendship for the foreseeable forever. 

“Oh.”

Byakuya nods, once, twice, and then on the third incline of his chin he draws himself up. Any sense that Makoto had of sadness, stress, nervousness or anything but his usual calculated cool-ness completely vanished. 

“Goodnight, Makoto. Do sleep well.” 

Makoto feels like the tables were somewhat turned on him. He was going to walk out, but instead, he’s getting ushered out by a poke between his shoulder blades. It makes him a lot sadder and a lot less vindicated. His entire body burns to turn around and apologize, run back to him again. 

Kyoko’s eyes are set on the wall behind him, her hands set awkwardly on his shoulder blades.

“Again.” She says, flatly. Makoto, heart in his throat, leans forward to place his lips against hers. It lasts less than a second before he draws back. Her lips are chapped, and her breath smells like spearmint. Byakuya’s lips were always pillow soft but

they aren’t speaking at the moment.

He shakes his head to free it of his taller friend (if they can ever get over themselves and have SOMEONE be the first one to apologize) and think of the girl in front of him. They’ve went on a few weird dates. Her asking him, of course. He’d never in a million years ask HER out. Not because he doesn’t think she’s incredible, more so that she’s just TOO incredible. She seems elevated above everyone else, not swayed by something as trifling as infatuation or silly human mating rituals. 

“That isn’t right.” She hums, moving her hands down his arms, securing him at the elbows and guiding his hands to sit on her waist. Makoto exhales shakily, feeling embarrassed, and puppeteered. “Okay. Again.”

Makoto leans in obediently. One of her hands cradles his chin, bringing them together more naturally. 

“Better.” She sighs when they separate again, and Makoto fights the urge to just tell her to stop, since she clearly isn’t enjoying this, and, well, Makoto is still caught up on a certain blond. “Okay, so this time, we kiss for real.”

“Those were real though-”

“No. We didn’t even open our mouths, Makoto.” She says,  the sentiment of ‘silly boy’ dripping from all of her words. “Alright. Again.”

Makoto meets her halfway, and she cautiously opens her mouth after a few seconds. Makoto stops thinking, needs to stop thinking, because this is weird and kissing her is just weird but he knows how to kiss and he’s good at it. And he likes her, he always has, it’s a simmering kind of thing that bubbles in his plasma. He’ll always look at her and see perfection. 

He lets autopilot take the lead, slowly backing her up until her knees hit the couch, and she falls into it, Makoto straddling her legs, knees tacky against the faux leather seats.

He lifts his head, “Okay?”

She nods and he leans back in, she melts into the couch, letting him lead. After a few minutes, though, she pulls away. “Alright.”

She says, and Makoto doesn’t really know how to reply to that.

“One more thing I want to try, then. Lay back.” 

A rush of panic flies through Makoto’s system, but she rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry. Just do it.”

He does.

“Okay.” Is all he gets, before she’s on top of him, kissing him into the couch cushions, nipping at the skin around his lips, up to his ears, back to his mouth. She kisses him so thoroughly that he can hardly even try to think of anything else. 

That is until- 

Crash . 

They both jump, and Makoto only gets a brief glimpse of Byakuya, standing in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted, a shattered mug at his feet. He backs out and away before either of them can say anything. Kyoko sighs heavily, getting up and off of Makoto. She then offers a hand to help him up, “I’ve decided I don’t like dating.”

“Oh?”

“It’s not you.” She clarifies, “I just know that- well if I don’t enjoy this with you, then I’ll never enjoy it with anyone.”

“Oh.”

“And you have another problem now.” She inclines her head toward the mess, “Yeah?”

“Well. Maybe we shouldn’t have been doing this in the common room.” Makoto comments sheepishly, feeling dirty and small. She pats him on the shoulder and presses a quick kiss to his cheek.

"I'm sorry." She says and it looks like she means it, "I'll scavenge out a new Manga series for you."

With that somewhat-but-not-really-comforting knowledge, Makoto trails slowly after Byakuya, terrified out of his mind. He doesn't like being talked down to, especially now that he doesn’t feel like he necessarily deserves it. He doesn't like it when Byakuya is mean to him. How he put up with it before, when it was commonplace and expected, he has no fucking idea.

When he finds him, he’s looking out a window over the park-rebuild efforts, the soft flesh on the underside of his jaw pierced on manicured claws he’d steepled into a contemplative pyramid. There’s a glare in his glasses from the angle Makoto approaches, so he can’t see exactly how fucked over he is from afar. Makoto’s footsteps are quiet, but Byakuya hears them anyway. 

“That didn’t take you long.” The pure malice in Byakuya’s voice shouldn’t have come as a surprise, spit out like acid, surely withering all the freshly-planted flowers from all the way up on the 14th floor.

“W-what?” Makoto chokes on the word before dislodging it. It doesn’t hit like a projectile as Byakuya’s words always do, just falls flat and rolls away.

“I didn’t realize our arrangement had concluded.” Byakuya still hasn’t turned to look at him, and a pang of hurt hits Makoto in the chest.

“You told me to crawl off and die.”

Byakuya’s posture finally changes, and he half turns to look at Makoto. “I did?” 

A tortured laugh skitters out of Makoto’s lungs. Of course. He doesn’t even remember .

“I fucked up a mission and you got angry at me. And that night when I tried to follow you to your room- you kinda got mad at me and- said stuff. Including that? Remember?”

“Oh.” Byakuya turns back to the garden. It is pretty beautiful, so far. Makoto hasn’t had time to see it in person yet, only raised high in the sky, getting coffee, signing papers. Working towards a beautiful world that he feels like he never sees. “I obviously didn’t mean it.”

“Obviously? Byakuya, come on, that wasn’t obvious at all! We haven’t spoken in weeks!”

“We haven’t?” 

Makoto circles the chair to check and see if Byakuya is playing him. He looks tense, and angry, but not snide. He’s being genuine.

“No. We haven’t. I’ve been avoiding you. Have you seriously not noticed?”

“I’m a busy man, Makoto-”

“So am I?” Makoto says, exasperated, “But we still have to make time for each other!”

“Make- time?” 

“The friends-with-benefits thing doesn’t work if we aren’t friends, and friends spend time together, and notice when the other friend stops talking to them for three weeks.”

“I see.”

Byakuya reaches into his pocket, pulling out his planner, and then he stops. It slides back into his jacket pocket sluggishly.

“Wait. Stop distracting me. Why were you kissing Kirigiri?!”

“Because- she asked me to. I mean, I- I guess that- Um. Like, you know, I’ve told you before! And. She uh- but she doesn’t like me anyway and I don’t really- um I mean I like-”

Byakuya raises an eyebrow.

“I- I didn’t mean for you to see it. Honestly.”

“Well.” He stands up, and the way that he eyes Makoto seems downright predatory, “I’m glad I did, because I like to know what you get up to. You won’t be doing it again, hm?”

“No.” Makoto shakes his head quickly, desire rising in his chest. Byakuya always looks good in his tailored suits, but he looks even better out of them. He takes a few strides forward so he can easily press Makoto against the floor-to-ceiling glass. “N-no. Only you.”

“Mmm. Yes, I’d expect so.” 

When Byakuya leans down to kiss him, he doesn’t think about the cruel words or the neglect or the half-assed yet utter possessiveness.

He thinks of how perfectly Togami’s lips fit against his, and how compared to the discarded damp matches he’d tried to light with Kirigiri, the sparks between Makoto and Byakuya could light fireworks.

Makoto traces his lips with his fingers as he stumbles, as if drunk, back to his room. He feels loud. He feels like he’s spilling a shameful secret all over the floor and tracking it all over the hallway, easy to see in the morning when everyone wakes up. He wants to run back and apologize and cry and scream and tell him to use him as long as he needs because then at least, it will delay the inevitable. He shakes his head hard when he starts to feel like he’s sounding like a 17-year-old Toko. 

“Get yourself together.” He whispers, slipping his id through the card reader with trembling hands.

This won’t be too bad. This won’t be too different, they’ll still be best friends but- they won’t ever sleep together or kiss, or even hug , except for on birthdays, and he probably won’t let him into his room anymore either, but that’s okay- right?

That’s okay.

…..

It’s not really okay. 

Sleeping alone isn’t uncommon for Makoto, there were plenty of nights over the years where he’d sleep in his room after a long day, not wanting to disturb his friend awake.

Last night, though, he slept alone because he wasn’t welcome. And it feels like shit. He tossed and turned because of the heavy grief in his chest, and when he finally started drifting off, another pang of guilt and sadness would race through him and place him right back where he started. 

He’s on yawn number five when he pours his coffee the next morning, and Byakuya walks in right as he sets the mug down. Makoto receives the same nod as always and he asks Makoto to pour him a mug too. As always. 

Ok . Well, maybe this won’t be that weird. Good. Great.

Except, when he gives the mug to his friend, all he gets is an incline of his head and a simple “Naegi” before he walks away. That was a mental blow that Makoto wasn’t expecting so when Byakuya leaves the room he has to stumble over to a chair and sit down.

Ok sure, he must be hurt, right? Or is he angry? 

“What was that about?” Hina asks him from across the little coffee table. There are magazines spread across it, creased to death, all dated from before the tragedy. He leans forward to fiddle with one of the golf ones. It’s the least handled, near smooth. 

“What are you doing here?” Makoto replies flatly, and she scoffs in offense. 

“What? I can’t visit you sometimes?”

“You aren’t here for me,” Makoto says, not even really hearing himself, so sunk into his own misery. Hina falls quiet. He realizes his mistake a few beats too late, “Not that I’m not glad to see you.”

“You’re grieving?” She asks quietly, and Makoto fully looks at her. The offense in her eyes is slowly eaten by an all-encompassing understanding, and Makoto doesn’t like how easy he is to read. “Is Komaru-”

“She’s fine. I mean, I assume she’s fine, what? Is something going on over there-?”

“No! No.” Hina covers quickly, “No, I just- everyone here seems to be fine, but you look-”

She trails off, but Makoto knows that she sees herself in his expression. 

‘You look like me.’

There’s something about losing your person, huge chunks of yourself bitten away and leaving you bleeding out for everyone to see. He feels horrible for feeling this way. He doesn’t deserve to feel this way. He did this to himself, he let it go that far, and he aborted it preemptively to save him from being life-endingly mauled.

But she had no choice, no answer, no possible solution. Sakura is gone and always will be. 

“I’m not- I mean.”

“Did Togami say something to you?” She accuses, “You aren’t his assistant, you know. You don’t have to make him his coffee and follow him around all the time.”

“Be my secretary.”

Makoto has his knees bent to his chest and sneakers up on the oak chair, scuffing them against it. He’d just noticed that there was dirt stuck in the grooves of the soles. He can’t imagine why, as they were new for his first day at hope's peak, and he’d only walked on them for a whopping 20 or so minutes until he passed out. The shoes are worn, as if used for a long time. It’s so baffling that he doesn’t really process what Byakuya just said. 

“What?” He asks distantly, and Byakuya slams his fist onto the table. Makoto jumps and looks up at him.

“Be my secretary.” He repeats, slowly, as if Makoto would have trouble comprehending otherwise. It certainly appears as if he were, because his feet slowly place themselves on the floor and he blinks wordlessly at him, “Naegi, seriously, are you deaf?”

“No! I mean. No. I mean- what?!”

“Not here, obviously.” Byakuya leans back, peering back at his book, “I’d ask you to do a few things for me here and there, but there isn’t much to manage in a killing game.” 

“Uh. So…you mean outside?”

“Mm. A useless commoner like you could never hope to earn more than, say, 100,000 dollars a year. But as my secretary, you would be guaranteed an ample salary and job security for the rest of your life.”

He speaks as if there is a feasible life for him, that they’ll both be able to get out of here. Byakuya doesn’t usually fall into fantasies or delusions of escape. He is usually the most rational out of everyone, justifying his cruelty with the fact that they’ll all be dead anyway, that he’ll be the last man standing. Makoto has started to dodge his blows by ignoring them, but he didn’t ever expect this. 

“Of course, working for me would multiply your prospects by 5.”

The math runs through Makoto’s head embarrassingly slowly, but his heart drops at the sum. “You mean 500,000?”

“Astute.” Byakuya snips, falling back into his reading again as if the conversation was over. Makoto is left reeling a little bit, the dirt in his shoes and the man across from him and the picture in the locker room, and his own secretary Sayaka Maizono’s corpse in his bathroom, it’s all too much. 

“W-wait- that’s all?”

“What else is there to discuss? I’ll let you know when I need anything.” 

“No. I mean. What?”

“Don’t look so concerned, I don’t expect you to be a servant.” He waves a hand, closing his book on the table with the other, “You’ll take the lead on projects, as well as assist me with mine. If you do good work, you’ll be a core part of the Togami corporation-”

“I didn’t say yes!” Makoto cuts him off, standing up. It’s Byakuya’s turn to look caught off guard  “Why are you doing this?” 

“Doing what ?”

“You’re messing with me.”

“I don’t ‘mess with’ people.”

“You mess with people.” Makoto says quietly, sitting back down in shame, Chihiro’s crucifixion burned into the back of his eyelids. He fumbles with the hem of his hoodie, “I thought you were done with messing with me.” 

“I’m being completely serious.” Byakuya pushes his glasses up his nose with his little finger, “If you think you're not worthy of it-"

"It's not that I just- I don't want hand-outs. I want to work towards a life that I can be satisfied with. I don't have to be rich for that."

"Hm." Byakuya looks at him over his now-steepled fingers, "I see. Well, when you change your mind, the offer still stands."

Makoto inwardly scoffs at his friend's(?) arrogance, but doesn't let the expression show on his face. The clock over the archive room ticks loudly, reverberating in Makotos scrambled brain as Byakuya forgets he exists again. It becomes far too much for him to handle, near painful, so he opens his mouth.

"So do you think we're getting out of here?!" It came out louder than he meant it to, echoing off the walls, "Both of us?"

Byakuya's eyes are pretty. They're such a pale, clear blue that they look like a thin sheet of ice delicately floating on a deep and empty frozen lake. They're a sort of pretty doll pretty, a pretty porcelain pretty. Makoto thinks they'd be more pretty if he let himself feel anything but reproach. He adjusts his glasses and the ice gets obscured behind the glare.

Togami taps the back of Makoto's hand, a simple, condescending pat on the knuckles. "I'm not going to let them hurt you."

"'Koto?" Makoto blinks up at his friend, who's concern has very clearly multiplied ten-fold, "You totally zoned out!"

Makoto shakes his head, "I'm sorry, Hina."

"Why? Did he do something? I'll beat him up and you know I'll win"

"No. No, it's my fault." Makoto replies faintly, picking up the golf magazine fully and flipping through the pages, it’s so frustratingly simple. Golf is stupid anyway. For stupid dumb rich idiots. Byakuya would probably be really good at golf if they could find any golf courses left. 

Hell. What is he saying? Of course there is, they’re despair-inducing enough.

“How is him mistreating you your fault? This happens like every few months, ‘Koto. It’s unprofessional!” 

He thinks they must be a bit beyond unprofessional. 

“You can tell me right now that he’s just having a bad day, and I’ll drop it, but- you seem really bummed.” 

“I- um. I fucked up.” He whispers, and he needs to make the conscious effort not to cry, “I fucked up really bad.” 

She scoffs as if that's an outlandish claim, causing a burning frustration to prick at the back of Makoto's eyes. She doesn't understand just how massively he's able to fuck up. His friends who knew him as the nobody lucky boy at the beginning of the killing game don't seem to remember how they knew of him before. They erase the fact that the stumbling idiot that he was in hopes peak is the same person as the ultimate hope that they all look to for guidance. His optimism and kindness pushed him into this strange position of reverence as if he could do no wrong.

If only they knew about the psychopaths living in a bunker on the fringes of town, and his pathetic love for the man who loves his body. 

“I think he’s mad at me now.”

“Well. Don’t lose too much sleep about it. You’re his only friend, so he’ll come back to you.” Hina leans back, not helping Makoto feel better at all, “Lord knows how you put up with him.”

Makoto wonders that too, sometimes. Makoto can tell that Byakuya treats him differently from everyone else, a little softer, a little kinder. Even out in the open it wasn't too uncommon for him to lean down and whisper in his ear during meetings or lead him by the elbow though the clicky-clacky hallways. He's never, as far as Makoto knows, willingly touched another person than Makoto aside from his signaturely crisp handshakes.

But his words never really changed outside of the safe and soundproof comforts of either of their rooms. 

Byakuya's tongue is as sharp as ever and any compliments or anything meant to be vaguely nice is hidden under layers and layers of spite and backtracking and ego. 

It made everything said in private feel like bandaids sloppily plastered on bullet holes.

But Makoto still ate every single saccharine word up. He was starving for it. He is starving for him .

"He's my friend." Is a too simple answer to Hina's not-even-a-question, and it might not even be true anymore, but it's all he's ever been able to say to anyone who's ever asked.

Hina smiles a little, at her knees, as Kyoko makes her silent beeline to the coffee pot "Yeah. You're a loyal one, alright."

Makoto ignores the way both women's eyes light up when Kirigiri turns to greet them, Makotos plight forgotten.

…..

At lunch break, Makoto walks as fast as he possibly can back to the lodging quarters, jamming his thumb against the placebo door close buttons on the elevator and literally jogging through the hallway, nearly running into phone-absorbed hunchbacks. He has thrown tact out the window, throttled grace to death, thrust his dress shoe through decorum's skull. He can't be the ultimate hope right now. He's just a broken stupid little boy who needs to cry into his pillow.

When he finally closes the door behind him, his energy is still zapping through his fingertips, inverting his stomach and squeezing his heart. He feels a huge physical sense of loss, leaving behind invisible molten sores.

He paces a few times to try and quell the energy leaking out of his arteries, dripping down his forearms and beading on his fingertips. He shakes his hands out, trying to get it off .

He thought he could get through today and it would be fine, but at any hint of Byakuya he would start to be all shaky and he couldn't really breathe. It usually wasn't even him, just another tall man in a suit.

This is ridiculous. 

Makoto knows this, this is ridiculous , he's panicking over the loss of a psuedo -relationship. It wasn’t even real. None of it was even real. 

He sinks heavily into the ruins of his unmade bed, lying down with his shoes still on and wrapping himself up with a blanket. He should have taken the day off. Scratch that, honestly, he’s going to take the day off without permission. What are they going to do, fire him? 

Right about when he’s going to drift off, he hears three sharp raps on his dorm door. Makoto’s whole body freezes, including his already raw vocal chords. Might as well, anyway. When he’s unable to respond for a good 5 seconds, the same knock comes again.

“Makoto, I know you’re in there, I followed you from the rec room.” Byakuya’s voice is dripping with annoyance, and Makoto can already picture the look on his face. Clenched teeth, sharp jaw, eyes rolled back and to the right.

Damn. 

“One second.” 

Makoto doesn’t really want to see Byakuya right now, or ever maybe, the only way this can be fixed is if he leaves the entire universe and everyone’s collective memory. Makoto drags himself up and to the door. 

Before it’s even fully open, Byakuya is already shoving things into his arms. “Here. Your blanket, most of your Manga, your shoes-”

“Stop. Stop I’ll drop it, just-” Makoto passes most of the shit back into Byakuya’s arms and kicks the door open. They both shuffle into his room awkwardly, mutually holding the blob of things Byakuya brought to him. They drop it all onto his mussed bed and stare at the pile for longer than normal.

Byakuya finally breaks the strange, tense silence. “Alright, I guess I’ll just- um.” 

He points over his shoulder at the open door. Makoto has the feral urge to grab onto Byakuya’s leg and not let go, like a petulant child or a police bite dog. Byakuya’s narrowed eyes scan Makoto’s face as the sentence trails out.

“Unless you would rather-”

There it is, an out, a take back. It’s clear. It’s perfect.

“Please.” Makoto utters. Byakuya nods and backtracks to close the door, re-sealing their bubble of niceties. Byakuya’s expression already looks softer than it does in the hallway lights when he turns around back to face him. The anger that usually accompanied observations like that before is eaten by all-encompassing desperation. He’s truly and fully broken, fully dependent, totally at the other man’s mercy. He tried to stand up to him but was tossed around regardless, and it’s only been a morning.

Makoto slowly unbuttons his blazer, and Byakuya watches him, evidently transfixed. It goes even slower than normal slow, though, because his fingers are shaking. The coat finally slides down his shoulders, pooling around his wrists and mingling with all of his displaced trinkets. 

Byakuya straightens, as if awoken from waking slumber. Alarm flashes through his eyes. “Makoto-”

“Shh.” He interrupts, loosening his tie and pulling it over his head, hucking it at Byakuya’s chest. The taller man is clearly caught off guard, the garment nearly slipping out of his fingers when he tries to catch it. 

“I really think-”

Makoto slips off of the bed onto his knees in front of Byakuya’s flustered form, nearly slipping into auto-pilot but not letting himself fall all the way back in. He needs to make sure he’s paying attention, that he’s doing a good job, otherwise he might lose Byakuya forever. When he reaches out to take off Byakuya’s belt, his fingers are caught in equally shaky hands. 

“Makoto, stop.”

“No, just let me-”

“I said stop!” Byakuya grunts, throwing Makoto’s hands down. They hit his chest and knock him back onto his heels. Byakuya takes a few steps back and leans heavily against a wall, “Jesus christ.”

“What,” Makoto asks flatly, his face settled into a mask emotionless and sharp as Byakuya’s. He gets it, now. It’s easier to be hurt when they don’t realize that you’re hurt at all. If Byakuya doesn’t want him, then this must all be truly over. 

“ Jesus. ” Byakuya mutters again, fingers digging into his ribs, “I think I’m going to throw up.”

Makoto’s mask cracks a little bit as he takes in the distinct discomfort in Byakuya’s posture, “What? Are you okay?”

“Please get off the floor.” Byakuya asks faintly, now viciously rubbing his eyes under his glasses, surely seeing stars. “Jesus.”

“Since when are you religious?” Makoto quips bitterly, slumping down and shifting his weight between his knuckles and knees. He has half a mind to actually grab Byakuya a bucket because he’s turned paler than usual. 

“Get off the floor.” Byakuya repeats, voice raising in emotion. “ Now. ”

“Why should I?” Suddenly he feels anchored to it, a streak of contrariness.

“Because this is sick .” Makoto’s stomach drops into the ground. He’s not even attracted to him, is he? He probably started thinking in their morning apart that it was a bad idea to have sex with Makoto for so long, that he’d dissociated from the fact that it was Makoto under him that it took Makoto leaving for him to snap out of his lust-filled haze-

“Because- because you’re- you’re shaking , Makoto.” Byakuya continues, a touch of fear in his voice, “Why are you shaking?”

“I’m nervous,” Makoto says flatly, legs sliding into a sad w. “I keep losing you.” 

“What does that mean?”

“Why are you showing me this?”

Monokuma holds the picture just out of reach, a smaller version of him and Byakuya that never existed, that only ever existed before but is now completely erased. Makoto makes a grab for it again, needing to see it, consume it, and envelop his entire soul in it. 

“I think it’s funny, your a d o r a b l e confusion turning to pure despair! You wonder why you trust him so much? Well. Here’s the answer!”

Makoto finally snatches it out of the bear’s claws and Monokuma laughs obnoxiously as Makoto’s face drops. They’re on a bench, under a sakura tree, sharing a pair of earbuds. Byakuya’s head is resting on Makoto’s and his eyes are closed peacefully, a small smile on his face, and Makoto is looking at the camera person smugly, possibly knowing that they wouldn’t be able to get a good picture if Byakuya was alert and conscious.

“This- we were-”

“Dirty perverted lovers! You were the kind of couple who would get it on in the janitors closet during free period!”

Makoto’s face burned. His skin burned and prickled and after a while of this all-encompassing burning feeling he realized that it wasn’t embarrassment but anger, molten white hot melting the flesh off of his bones he-

“Makoto.” Byakuya asserts, pushing off the wall, “What do you mean ,” 

Makoto doesn’t like being angry he doesn’t like it. He likes “playing nice”. He forgives easy and he loves easier. He doesn’t like it but

-staring at Byakuya as he looks smugly down on all of them in their broken circle of grief, boasting of creating a challenge makes rage claw at his throat. Chihiro, crucified, christ. Byakuya, playing at God the father. Makoto keeps crawling around on his worshipping knees. His reverence makes him angry because he doesn’t understand it. Later later later though he drops to his knees anyway, despite it all, despite everything. 

“I- I need you. I need you . What do you want me to do?!” Makoto says, a wave of desperation overtaking him,  “I’m sorry I got mad. It’s my fault, I wasn’t thinking, okay?”

“I want you to get up!! ” Byakuya screams at him, voice raised in a way he hadn’t heard since Hopes Peak. It’s sharp, it’s scared, and his face is blurry to Makoto, as if he can’t register his expression; so grotesque and painful. He slowly makes his way to his feet, still below, never on the same footing. Byakuya inhales deeply, shakily- “And now- and now I need you to tell me how many times you’ve done that.”

“Done what?” 

“You- you were trying to get me to sleep with you.”

“Yes.” Makoto rolls his eyes, hugging himself.

“Presumably to distract me.”

“A little? ‘Kuya what is this about-”

“How many times have you done that? How many times did I- did I take advantage of you?” 

Makoto is shocked to silence, his quivering heart not doing any favors to quell the shakiness of his hands. He's trembling. 

"You thought- you thought I was just-" Makoto still can't look at his face. He can't he can't. His entire world will explode. "Makoto!"

"What?!" 

"Look at me, goddamnit!"

Makoto hears the words. He hears them, but he feels like he’s on the bottom of the sea, water thumping on his eardrums. He’s on the floor, collapsed against the podium, and no one moves to help him. No one could, even if they wanted to. They don’t know what happens when they leave their designated space, but the gatling gun suspended from the ceiling gives them an awfully clear idea.

"Naegi, stand up. Please. Vote for her, we can get a tie if you vote for her-"

"You all know this wasn't me-" Kyoko says. Calm, as always. Assured. Assured of Makoto's guilt. He sinks deeper into catatonic fear.

"Stand up! Stupid little boy!"

Makoto feels his meager breakfast rise slowly up his throat. He swallows it down, gripping the banister like a lifeline, as if he’d be spared from his fate if he held on tight enough. 

All of their fates. 

They’re all going to die. 

“Fuck.” Makoto mutters, hitting his head against the wood, as the voices rise up around his ears. 

“Why the hell would Makoto kill anyone?” Byakuya’s voice is trailing up into shrill hysteria, which is so odd that a bubble of laughter releases from Makoto’s lips “You guys are so effing wrong. We’re all going to die!"

Makoto pulls himself to his feet to vote. One tiny nod from Kirigiri has him voting for himself. 

One glance across the stand at the announcement of his punishment shows Makoto Byakuya's tears.

That's the last thing he sees before a chain wraps around his throat, yanking him back-

to the present, to fingers on his chin lifting his face up but keeping his eyes still cast down because he can't look. He can't look.

"Makoto." Byakuya sounds strained, "I need you to look at me."

Makoto finally does. Byakuya is crying. His nose is slightly red and his eyes are puffy and the tears are actively and rudely streaking down his face. And it's so much different from those desperate angry tears from before and Makoto can't even properly remember those. 

Byakuya isn't really human. Why is he crying?

Sniffle crying, fogging up his glasses.

" Do you really think I don't love you?"

Makoto sighs.