Tomorrow, dawn will crack like the castle's aging paint job, and you will rise from slumber. You will present yourself to pure, unabashed royalty, curtsy, and request pardon for being out of commission. Years from then, you will craft and weave the story of tonight for your future children, slathering it in coats of intrigue and fine-tuned detail.
You hate to even think it, but your hailed creativity gives you absolutely nothing to work with tonight. All you can do is scrounge up old writing adages, settling on "It was a dark and stormy night".
Except, it could very well be day. And were you sure it was actually dark out?
The only certainty at hand, really, was the storm. Your king (Or the little bastard, as Maki calls him) smiles in that horrible way he does. He's given the perfect opportunity to be honest with his subjects.
He does not take it. This is not a surprise to you in any way whatsoever. You can read those types of men like a book. Still, these few sudden years of kindness have worn his lies down. Now they only provoke instead of guard. Compulsive, without the pathological.
He says the storm is all anyone was allowed to know. You know, like a liar.
He pretends it's because he simply won't share with the class. You know full well the storm is the only one keeping secrets here.
You don't know if his questions gnaw at him as he lays in bed, searching for answers in his daughter's mural hanging above him, but you can guess.
The sky hangs above you all. The shifting, otherworldly nuances it captivated humanity with are trapped behind shut blinds. The rationed meals Nagito brought tittered in the limbo between "Questionable, but probably safe." and "Teruteru and Ruraka would have Maki's head for letting children eat this, but the nanny is a bit desperate at the moment." You press your hand to the wall. It rumbles with uncertainty.
For those few pseudo-weeks trudging along, all that was, and ever would be, was the storm. She wailed against the roof, determined to cement her downpour of terror in our memories. The kingdom would never forget her. She wouldn't allow it.
You've saved her a spot in the back of your mind. Given her free rain to crawl around the folds of your brain. You find her slow-paced, offbeat music and accompanying light show comforting, in some base, primal way.
You can't say the same for your temporary roommates, however. Sure, Jataro seems content vandalizing her bedframe with the help of her oil paints and Nagito seemed pacified with doting over his little sister, lost in that little world of his as he gently rocked her back and forth and twittled with her green locks (God, what a weirdo. A sweet, friendly weirdo, but still).
But poor Monaca sounded like she was trying to talk herself out of her own boredom. And Maki? You had no intentions of slandering your dear childhood friend, but the royal nanny looked close to murder. Whether Nagito was first on her kill list for hope-related crimes, or the kids for making her work overtime, it was clear from her lidded eyes and dead stare that exhaustion and cabin fever was setting in.
You wonder if Sato's has set in yet or Hiyoko's boredom before sheltering your flaring cheeks with your hands, as if Monaca's chilling stare was preening your face for a cause. You have no right fretting over the princess in your spare time. Not like that.
To distract from your quickly wandering thoughts, you drag yourself over to the only window by your palms, grunting as your head awkwardly circles the border of film noir grey peeking through. The rough carpet stings, stray dirt and sand scraping at your palms and the pads of your fingers, but Hiyoko has taught you the odd joy found in the childish. Even crawling around.
She has taught you how to pine too, but Monaca's widening eyes refuse to let yourself linger on that tonight. You swear, between her, the queen, and Maki, there's not a single room in this godforsaken mansion you feel safe being suspicious.
Once facing upwards, you answer your forearms' aching pleas and collapse each limb piece by piece, until all your eyes can focus on is the ground-up lapis lazuli meticulously slathered onto the ceiling. The glimmers of flashing white light turn hazy in the corner of your eyes.
Someone outta paint a mural up there. Definitely not you. Still-life doesn't make for a good mural. Your work slots neatly into its frame and that's that. You've been that high up before, anyway. In your naive goodwill, you offered to help the royal carpenter (Mondo, right? Everyone blends into each other around here) take down the queen's requested royal family portrait. You don't know which startled you most: the view from halfway down or the mortifying, loving detail you poured into the rosy red of Hiyoko's cheeks and the dull purple rage in Sato's eyes.
Somebody, though. Scrape off that pompous ultramarine. Have Angie sketch out a design. Maybe get the children up there and let them smear the primary colors around until it looks decent. Make it a reward for dealing with all this and a break for Maki.
The faint sense that you should give your close friend somewhat of a break now wafts away the slough of your thoughts, like someone waving away smoke after putting out a candle. Couldn't let the poor women carry your shared unfortunate situation on her shoulders alone.
It was both of yours, after all.
Your attention, and your head, turn to the little girl laying down beside you, head propped up by her arm. You were sure she hadn't been there a moment ago, but now she just...was. Staring into your soul in the most bored way possible. You had enough experience painting with Jataro to know kids were kinda just...like that and that you should at least make an effort to entertain the poor girl, but still. How could you strike up a conversation like this when you just spent the last half hour or so avoiding eye contact and scarfing down lunch in loud silence, save for the pitter-patter of the king and his lovers above?
Isn't your duty as a friend to shield your quiet friend and your shared soft-spoken company from an impending tantrum anyhow? Isn't the thunder enough?
Without breaking eye contact, Monaca pulls one of your paint brushes from behind her and flicks it, folding her arm to rest her head. It bumps against your arm before rolling a few centimeters in the other direction. Neither of you says anything until it comes to a halt.
"Jataro's too embarrassed to ask for your help painting the bed, so Monaca's doing it for him." And so she is, offering just enough words and a bone-chilling smile (Embarrassed of what? His art skills? Asking her to deface her belonging together, as if that isn't the sweetest she's heard all day? Himself?) "Don't worry!" She brushes the tip of your nose as her own scrunched up in a smile. "Monaca will help too!"
By the time the three of you are done, Maki is knocked out at the foot of the bed, Nagito and Monaca are curled up together (as they should be), neatly tucked in, and Jataro is buried deep in your arms, bouncing on your lap in pride. You've both made art with your tiny little hands and survived the subsiding storm. The knowledge is mutual.
