Why am I doing this to myself.

So! A fix it, sorta... I think?

Well, here you go!

Chapter 1: Live, Die, Rinse, Repeat

When Makoto lies down on Aigis' lap to rest, to breathe his final breath on March 5th, he is ready and content to die; to embrace Death (Ryoji) into his heart and slip away—

And once he feels his very soul drift off into its final destination, he expects to be greeted by oblivion, or that yellow scarf, or those bright blue eyes, or anything. But not this.

Not jolting awake, with air in his lungs and warmth in his fingertips. Not with eyes that shouldn't be snapping open to look through the windows of the train that calls for the name Iwatodai Station.

(And that is but a start of an endless cycle that he could never escape from.)

It is not Pharos that greets him when he reaches the dorm, oddly familiar yet dishearteningly quiet.

It is Ryoji. Fully grown man with long yellow scarf that has surrounded his form so many times, with eyes that shimmer and shine like sapphire under the morning sun.

"What is happening?" He croaks, his voice unbearably loud against the staleness of the Dark Hour.

Ryoji looks just as lost, mouth slightly agape, his fingers shaking almost uncontrollably, mimicking Makoto's beating heart. Makoto forces a gulp down his throat, forces a strange sensation to fall into the pit of his stomach and lets it fester under his feet as he focuses his attention on Ryoji, who remembers – just has he has. He remembers their bonds, what had happened, what should have been—

"I don't know," Ryoji breathes, terrified, quiet, eyes glowing with the eerie light of the moon, of Nyx and her deathly splendor. "I don't know, Makoto – why are we—"

Why are we here, when we should've died, where we shouldn't be? Neither of them could finish.

"I don't know," He says, breathes, as the tickling clock of the Dark Hour starts to fade, as shadows rise and fall like tidal waves, one that surrounds him, choking him silent—

And when the quietness leaves, he's greeted with what shouldn't be; of Yukari standing on the staircase, of Mitsuru looking at him with coldness instead of warmth.

Igor doesn't know what had happened, either.

But, to Makoto's quiet delight in all this nightmare, Igor doesn't forget, unlike his friends (family), who don't remember the bonds that they've shared, don't remember what they are, what they mean to him. The Velvet Room exists where time has no meaning, where space is both vast and minuscule. So it is as it should be, that the Velvet Room would be exempted from whatever happened to the world, to the flow of time that should only march forward, not into itself like this.

And, another thing that surprises him more is that Ryoji is here with him, too.

He is as he always has been – a flicker, a phantom, the boy born from within his own heart, one who carved out a piece of Makoto and cherished it more than Makoto ever could. The boy who shares his heart and soul, who fills the void in his chest and makes him whole, who makes him alive and human, the boy who he loves and loves him in return.

"What happened?" He asks as he clutches his Evoker to his side, its cold steel a cruel reminder that this is not just a nightmare, but reality manifested through Fate's twisted whim. "I shouldn't be here. We should have been dead; we should have been made to guard the Great Seal—"

"I do not rightly know," Igor shakes his head, and Makoto catches from the corner of his eyes the way Elizabeth seems to be, oddly quiet and contemplative. "I cannot feel anything, only a slight twist in reality itself. Whatever had trapped you here is by no means normal."

"Makoto," Ryoji breathes quietly, reaching out his hand – ethereal but so solid, so warm, one that Makoto desperately misses since that day, since New Year's Eve – to grasp his. "We'll figure this out together. Even if I'm Nyx Avatar, I'm still me – and I will never forget. I'll not leave you alone."

And, in the midst of all of this, that is probably the very thing that keeps his sanity intact.

Months pass, and nothing changes.

Even if it hurts, Makoto tries his best; he forges his bonds up from the ground, molds them just as he had before, but with higher level of care, and with more love than he had the first time around.

And each night, he would talk – with Ryoji, with Igor, with Elizabeth.

But nothing changes. They never do.

There's nothing to work with, no changes except that little dent at the edge of reality that they couldn't touch, a ghost of the beginning and the end that seems to melt away into the shadow of the Dark Hour. And while Makoto doesn't want to give up, doesn't want to stop his search for the truth, for his right to die in peace, he has to take a pause – a breath.

A breath he isn't supposed to take.

"Makoto," Ryoji says, sitting beside him during the dark night of the Dark Hour, his warmth seeping into Makoto's marrows like a prayer, his fingers indefinitely warm on his hand. When Makoto looks up, to those eyes that shimmer and shine like the lapis lazuli under the moon's glow, Ryoji smiles sadly, "Just give it time. I'm sure the opportunity will present itself eventually."

"…I hope so, too," Makoto murmurs, curling Ryoji's scarf – even if it's not real, it's warm. To him, it's warm and kind and infinitely patient – around his frame, kneading Ryoji's knuckles in between his fingertips. "I hope so. I don't want to risk their lives with this."

"I know," Ryoji breathes, with love and reverence; with kindness that Makoto doesn't know what he did right to deserve. "I'm here with you, Makoto. Even if I want you to live, I'll help you."

I'll help you fight for your right to die, Ryoji doesn't say.

Makoto, against all odds, snorts out a laughter, bitter and slightly resentful at it all, at the hands Fate has dealt him. But he supposes (hopes) this won't repeat, this will be the last time, his final chance to live his life once more before he surrenders everything for the sake of those he loves.

"Mhm," He hums, leaning his head against Ryoji's shoulder, breathing deeply the scent of life and death, of moonlight and fallen snow. "Thank you, Ryoji."

(What they don't know at the time, however, is that this isn't something so simple that it would go away with just a few wishes to the distant stars.)

He tries to change it, change fate, change the past. But he fails.

Aragaki is dead, just the same. So too does Ikutsuki. So too does Kirijou Takeharu.

Makoto couldn't feel anything. There is no sensation in his limbs, no thoughts in his head – only coldness and numbness remains.

Why would he be given this chance at all, if he couldn't do anything to alter the flow of events?

"Makoto," Ryoji calls, now tangible and human, reminding him of the path forward, reminding him of their bonds, doomed from the start— "Are you sure you'll be alright?"

"No," He replies, truthful of the dread bubbling up his chest like wildfire, spreading through his body like the plague and latching into his heart like a parasite. "I don't want to live through this again. I want you to stay."

I want to be alive, with you beside me, he doesn't say.

But Ryoji gets it – like always, Ryoji could understand him like no one else could, could see past his walls of apathy and deep into his heart, where it bleeds and wails out in misery, in pain that could never be soothed—

"It's okay, Makoto," Ryoji murmurs, taking in his hand and dotting a soft kiss to his temple, breathing onto his skin and leaving a ghostly trail of heat behind as he kisses lower, reminding Makoto that right here and now, Ryoji is alive; not a personification of Death that would soon call forward the mother, the Fall, but a boy who he loves and loves him in return. "After all of this is over… I suppose eternity will be ours."

He allows himself a small smile, even if something prickles at the back of his mind. Something vile and dark and infinitely dangerous, something that makes Makoto want to curl up and cry, to forget it all and surrender himself to infinite darkness that lies between space and time. "I hope that would be the case, too—" He pauses, then adds with a chuckle "—I can't believe I'm actually waiting to be molded into the Seal for an eternity to come."

Ryoji doesn't smile, but instead presses his lips against Makoto's own, silencing his beating heart under the light of the moon.

"I have to go."

Ryoji murmurs, on the last day of the year that marks the beginning of the Fall. Makoto had made sure to talk to all of his friends, to see their resolves to live strengthens one more time, while Makoto himself is fighting for the chance to die in peace – and irony, to be sure.

"Only a few months left," Makoto whispers back, squeezing his hand gently, lightly. His chest grows hollow, but this time not without hope – there's a spark of their bonds, warm and growing stronger, even when Fate has dictated they be separated for as long as they live and breathe. "And we'll see each other again."

"Not before at the summit of Tartarus, though," Ryoji says, mirthless, but with affection; fond in ways Makoto could never repay, but is nevertheless given in kind. "…You do know I don't have the ability to resist Nyx's calling, right? That would include my inability to stop myself from fighting you, too."

"I know," He murmurs, leaning into Ryoji's hand as the boy touches his cheek, reminding him of the warmth that he would soon lose to the relentless march of time. "Don't worry about it. I've done it before, and I'll do it again."

For the both of us, remains silent, settling in between the lines like the words Makoto often holds between his teeth like a secret he doesn't want to tell a soul.

"Alright," Ryoji hums, standing up and pulling him along, holding him close to his chest one last time – he hopes it would be one last time, yet hopes that there would be more chance to feel Ryoji's hand on his, too – before letting go. "Let's go. I still have to tell your friends how to face me."

"I could—"

"—do that? I don't think you could," Ryoji murmurs solemnly, reaching a hand up to his cheek and wiping away a drop of tear that falls down his cheek. "Allow me to. Okay?"

Makoto breathes, keeping his emotions steady – enough to get him through this – then nods, curling his lips down and pressing his lips into a tense line. "…Okay. I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you, too."

The end is nigh.

He's starting up at Nyx's ruby eyes again, seeing nothing but the darkness that spans outward forevermore and the reverberating roar that deafens even the sound of his heartbeat into oblivion.

But this time, instead of being alone, a single hand reaches for his, cradling his fingers in it, giving him the warmth that he needs, the last push to go through with this for the second (and hopefully last) time.

Are you ready? The voice whispers, quiet and with love.

Makoto finds himself smiling back in return, squeezing onto the nonexistent hand that has been with him since the start, and one he craves to return to the most—

"I am," He breathes, and calls for the power that is the beginning and the end.

One last time, for his right to die.

I'll see you again soon, love, Ryoji breathes, letting the softness of his words wash over Makoto like mid spring's stream, soothing his heart and claiming his soul as its own. Wait for me, okay?

I will, Makoto thinks, as he allows the Universe to pull his soul apart, molding it into the Seal once more, and lets himself be shaped into what he is always meant to be.

And here he lies, on Aigis' lap, in his final days.

Makoto could feel Death's embrace coming closer, cold yet infinitely warm with kindness and love, with reverence and affection. He simply waits it out, just like the first time, feeling the way his life ebbs away through his fingers like grains of sand, feeling the way the spring wind feels in his hair, the way the warm sunlight feels on his cheeks.

"The others will be here soon," Aigis murmurs quietly, with love, with affection, and with understanding – she knows he will die, she knows he will leave and never return, too. And this time, he manages to take a closer look, to see sadness hiding behind her soft blue eyes, to see determination simmering like embers within her mechanical – yet human – heart. "You can rest easy, Makoto-san. They'll be here."

I know, he stops himself from saying, hands grasping her colder ones, feeling the way her fingers shift under his palm. I know.

And when the door creaks open, and when his world – save for the part (for Ryoji) that exists up above, beyond where he could see – he allows himself to slip away—

And when silence and darkness embrace him, he relaxes.

The nightmare is finally over, and peace – and eternity – is now his.

To his horror, he finds himself jolting awake on the train, again, with a feeling deep in his gut that some part of the universe really wants to mock him, wants to laugh at his expense and damn him into the purgatory that he could never get out of.

He banishes the thought and wills himself to think, to make his way through the eerie glow and to where he knows he will find his answer (the confirmation to his fear).

And when he reaches the dorm, under the Dark Hour's distant moon, he's greeted with Ryoji, again.

Ryoji, who remembers that this is not the second time, but the third.

"Makoto—" Ryoji whispers, horrified at the implication of it all. "Makoto, what—"

"—I don't know," He breathes, even when he shouldn't. Breathe in the air as stale and as silent as that moment at Tartarus' zenith, breathes in with life he shouldn't have, life he willingly gives up for the Seal, for eternity to take hole of his soul— "I don't know. What the hell's happening?"

Neither of them could find the answer, and soon, only silence remains.

Igor is as terrified and clueless as Makoto is.

And this time, Ryoji no longer reassures him that they will find the way out, as if knowing that Igor's lack of words or advices could only mean one thing – that this is not normal, and that they have no way to know what influences time's stagnation, or who makes it so that time doesn't flow.

Instead, he gives Makoto his love, and his silence; his reassurance, that he will not forget.

But what good would that do, when I've been denied peace? Makoto doesn't say.

It's harder than the second time to reforge the bonds anew, and he knows his sanity is crumbling like sandcastle – brittle and fragile, full of pain and misery.

And in his haste to fill the gaps in his heart with bonds so that he could look for more clues, he makes a grave mistake – of nurturing them with resentment that shouldn't be, of building them up with anger and bitterness that shouldn't have been left between him and the rest of his family—

And so, they grow distant, as bitter and angry as he is with the hands that Fate has dealt him with.

It is harder to breathe, but he has to keep the hope that this would be the last time for them both alive.

(But all of them know in their souls that this won't ever end.)

The only silver lining in this miserable existence that exists between life and death is that Makoto is allowed more time with Ryoji – to breathe in his scent, to feel him close, to keep him closer.

And Ryoji indulges him in it, in the feelings of heat on his skin, trailing along each curve of his body in ways he has always imagined they would do together, in silence and solitude, with onlythe thoughts of each other and nothing else in their minds.

They stop (Makoto stops) trying to find a way out after November's shootout, where he has to relive Mitsuru wailing for her father, where he has to see the lost hope in their eyes again. Ryoji doesn't push him, but reminds him that the opportunity to unwind all of this will come in due time. And when he bids Makoto to wait, to keep his eyes on this reality a while longer, all he could do is laugh.

They both know – a gut feeling, and nothing more – that this won't be the last time. But they both keep up the hope that it will, and Makoto refuses to think of the alternative.

He'll face that alternative if (when) another cycle happens.

"Makoto," Ryoji breathes, biting the words into Makoto's neck as his hand, soft and cold, traces across his chest and down his navel, unravelling the knots of tenseness in his chest into strips of little nothings that can be shaped and changed into something more stable, more permanent— "Breathe."

He does, inhaling the scent of moonlight and fallen snow, of Death and decay, that settles into Ryoji's being like a second skin. He rests his hands on the knob of Ryoji's shoulders, pulling him closer, feeling the heat of life that he doesn't truly have exchanged between their flushed skin—

"Makoto," Ryoji repeats as he pulls away, and Makoto groans with displeasure a the lost of touch, the lost of warmth. But Ryoji persists, taking his cheeks into those cold hands and looks down at him, with a soft and gentle smile that he could never get tired of. "The chance to end this will come. Have some faith."

We both know, deep in our hearts, that it won't, Makoto wants to say, but bites the words back down, nodding his head as he rests his forehead on Ryoji's shoulder, feeling the way his pulse sings under his skin, feeling the air and the life fill his lungs. "…Okay."

"Don't think," Ryoji says – commands – his voice low and raspy, his lips forming into a devious smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm still here. We're here. We'll get through this together."

"Okay," Makoto repeats, even when the tense line of Ryoji's shoulders doesn't leave, even when the unspoken words hang above their heads like a crown of thorns. "We will. Together."

Going through the finally few months is as painful as the first two times – saying goodbye to Ryoji is never easy, and seeing the sparks of life fading from his friends – family – is never painless.

But he persists, keeping the hope that he could find what had gone wrong to the flow of time alive through his muted emotions, through his bonds molded with pain and with hurry, with desperation and with fear. They feel different, marred and broken. And they feel nothing like how they should be. Bonds should be foster with care, with love, and what had he done this time around, in his desperation?

He wishes he could've done it better, not giving up to his despair and his misery this easily.

But instead, he sighs, keeping his hope that this will end alive and breathing in the cold air, filling his lungs with life until he could face Ryoji one more time at the apex of the world. He sighs again, and keeps himself alive, even through the bonds that are jagged and ill-defined, bonds that are more likely to hurt him than they will heal.

(Somewhere in his heart, Orpheus stirs, his lyre plucked into tunes unknown to him. Makoto sets his heart to remember the sound, as it is the only way for him to mark the flow of time that will soon stagnate around him, and around Ryoji, too.)

Making the Seal is much harder this time, seeing how painful and how brittle his bonds are.

He dies within hours of performing the Seal, and with pain – with so much pain that it is unbearable, that he could feel his heart crumbles to pieces inside him. And he hopes that this won't last, that the world will resumes, even if they don't consider him like the family that they should've been, that they used to be – because he still loves them, no matter what they would think of him.

And when he dies, this time, he dies alone – cocooned in his room, with nothing but the cold silence and the creeping dark as his grave.

He shouldn't have been surprised, but he still does, when he jolts awake again on the train to the place that is now both his safe haven and his purgatory.

Ryoji looks like he wants to cry when Makoto sees him again.

Neither of them says anything for the rest of that night.

Live. Die. Rinse. Repeat.

One life he lives like he never does, with care and love, open and without secrets, with his emotions laid bare. Another, he lives in resentment, in recluse and in solitude, just to die alone, cold and angry. And in another, he lives in muted, unbreakable silence. Over, and over, and over.

Each time, he tries to act differently, yet the results remain just the same—

With each year, with each life, his emotions numbed, his wills crumbled, his sanity shattered.

But at first, Makoto persists – he tries to live it out, to find that sliver of evidence that might help pull him out of his nightmare, that might end this endless cycle once and for all.

Ryoji remains by his side, always, as a kind hand to hold, as an ear to listen to his plight, as a presence to give him a reassurance; that, at the very least, Makoto is not alone in this.

He's tired.

He's just so tired, living and dying and living and dying like this, without an end in sight, without real purpose, without a goal.

And the bonds he has to reforge multiple times feel like vices around his neck. He wants to let them fail, let them turn bitter and broken, like he did on that third cycle – but he couldn't allow himself to. If this is the chance for this cycle to be the last, then he couldn't afford to.

It hurts. Everything does, and he just wants it all to stop.

Under the single eye of Nyx, Makoto breathes, resting his forehead on his clasped hands.

"Einstein once said," Makoto says one day, on the rooftops within the glare of the Dark Hour, to Ryoji – who, at this moment, is but a phantom, an illusion of his own machination, but is never the less real – with his head tipped towards the sky. "That insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."

"You never live a year the same way," Ryoji says, sadness leaden his every word, even as he takes the hand Makoto rests on the rail of the roof into his own. "You try everything differently."

"But the results remain the same," Makoto mutters, gripping his hand a little tighter, feeling the way Ryoji squeezes back gently and with love, with affection; and Makoto briefly wonders just what had he done right, to earn himself such an unconditional love. "I'm tired, Ryoji. I don't want to live like this. And I just don't care about anything else anymore."

"I know," Ryoji says, and stays where he is even when Makoto produces a gun he has stolen from Ikutsuki into his hand. Ryoji's voice cracks at the end as he continues; "Makoto…"

"I'm tired," He says, shaking his head and pressing the gun – real and metallic and cold – against his temple in the silence of the night, just a few minutes shy of the Dark Hour. Makoto looks up at the sky before closing his eyes. "…Please, don't judge me."

"I won't," Ryoji reassures, moving his hand up Makoto's arms and to his shoulder, the ghost of his touch both warm and cold. His touch is as kind as ever before. "…I'm so sorry."

I'm so sorry I couldn't do more. I'm so sorry I couldn't break you out of this.

"It isn't your fault" Makoto says, pulling at the trigger, feeling the way his heart races in anticipation within the confines of his ribs. "I love you."

"So do I," Ryoji sobs, silent and mournful, as Makoto steels his heart and completes what he has set out to do this time – to end it earlier than it should, to cut the cycle once and for all— "So do I—"

And when everything bleeds away into the dark, he lets himself think that he succeeds, that he has finally breaks the chains and shatters the cycle—

Of course, nothing is ever easy with Fate.

"Fuck," Makoto groans, slamming his head back into the glass pane behind him as the train races towards Ryoji, towards his purgatory where he is doomed for a life in constant repeat, for a life without a goal, without end.

He glares at the moon, at its iridescence and at its vileness, one that seems to glimmer in mockery to his current – continuous, unending – predicament.

But he knows nothing will ever change. Cutting the cycle early doesn't do the trick, either.

He sighs – he still has many more lives to live, and Makoto is by no means looking forward to it.

A few cycles, a few lives after that, he starts smoking and drinking alcohol.

"Why?" Ryoji asks one day, sitting beside him in Club Escapade, a glass full of whiskey in his hand.

He has earned enough money within Tartarus to bribe his way to the counter, to loosen the bartender's tongue and to seal the polices' lips shut. And while he normally doesn't even dare try the first few times, once he gets Mutatsu to actually let him have a sip, he just knows that this is probably one of the very few ways he could keep himself entertained during all of this.

It is audacious to suggest being entertained when he and Ryoji are both trapped within this perpetual life that starts and ends within one pocket of the universe, sequestered away from the flow of time that should have continued forward without looking back. But he has lived around ten or so years' worth of life already, and while he still clings to a dim hope (the Arcana is the means by which all is revealed speech has now lived rent-free inside his head) that this won't last, he won't get his hopes up too high, either.

"Nothing better to do," He shrugs, taking a sip and feeling the familiar scald of the alcohol's bites upon the back of his throat. Makoto then takes a pause, rolling the words on his tongue, before he corrects himself with a small frown. "…Actually, that makes me think. I should start doing something to pass the time."

"I'd suggest learning a new skill," Ryoji shrugs, nudging Makoto's shoulder with his own. "Do you have anything in mind? Or would you rather I suggest a few?"

"Cooking," Makoto replies instantly. He has so little chance to bond with Aragaki that he regrets not being able to learn more than just a few dishes, and he has always wanted to be able to cook, to give a bit more joy to his bland existence. "And maybe playing more music, too. Guitar looks like something I could enjoy most with you."

"Mhm," Ryoji hums, placing his hand on Makoto's shoulder silently, smiling gently at him, his eyes shining with the same glints of distant stars that never fails to take his breath away, knocking him off his balance and making him feel loved and whole— "Let's do that, then."

Afterwards, for each cycle, he decides to try to master a new skill – and while he couldn't say he has master it all, Makoto thinks this is one of the very few way for him to keep his sanity intact through this nightmare, even if he could still see no end to it all.

He stops counting after the 47th one.

Why 47th? It's probably because, during that one, he managed to screw up the only thing he was supposed to do – to foster the bonds with love and care. Instead, with but a few slips of his consciousness, a few bitterness let loose through his teeth, he had managed to fuck up his bonds with the SEES so badly that it resulted in him dying the moment he performed the fucking Seal—

And oh, it hurts to even remember that moment, the pain seared deep into his soul and leaving behind scars too large for him to ever heal.

The next few (not a few?) cycles Makoto didn't even care enough to count, he lived unlike how he promises himself he was supposed to – in silence, in solitude, his bonds made at bare minimum, just enough for him to perform the Seal. He still died the moment he erected the gate between Erebus and Nyx, but the next uncounted times, with none of the bonds with the SEES broken and reversed – simply left incomplete – he doesn't feel as much pain, doesn't feel as much misery.

When he could finally erase the pain of that one cycle that marks his soul with its claw so absolutely that the wounds could never be undone and look up after jolting awake on the train, he frowns, feeling like he has lost something, enough to leave a gap in his heart that could never be filled.

And when he meets Ryoji upon the doorways, eyes sorrowful yet with some form of anticipation, he smiles and shrugs, apologetic. "…I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me—"

"It's okay," Ryoji breathes in relive as he wraps his ethereal arms around Makoto's frame, holding him just enough for the warmth to spread through the touch, phantasmal as it may be. "I'm just glad you're okay. Are you?"

He smiles, and before the Dark Hour fades to welcome him back to the infinite nightmare made manifest through some malevolent will, murmurs, "Of course not. We both know I never will."

Ryoji doesn't say anything, allowing darkness and shadows to swallow him back into the void as Makoto turns to greet Yukari and Mitsuru once more (for the umpteenth time).

It turns into somewhat of a waiting game.

He's tired, enough that he would just forge the bonds as perfunctorily as possible, enough to not make any of them attached to him, but enough for him to make the Seal. And he's tired, enough that he's just living day by day, fighting Shadows mostly on autopilot. Because he remembers his bonds – or whatever cosmic fluke it is that allows him to retain his myriads of Personas – he could call for anyone and anything. The Universe allows him to bring out the best that his Personas have to offer, through the superficial, brittle and weak bonds that he's made, and that's okay with Makoto.

He's just so fucking tired, and if this won't end, then he's going to enjoy it by waiting for one of the only souls that remembers how the world should be—

By, at times, do something rather questionable with Elizabeth, his ever eccentric and energetic attendant, who remains as understanding as she ever was. She never judges him, nor his choice. Never judges the fuck-ups he had done within these endless cycles, instead keeping him company, filling the void in his heart with her gentleness that could never be replaced.

And by, during the only month they have together as humans, alive and tangible, lives and breathes in Ryoij's scent, remembering his face and searing his touch onto Makoto's own skin. Neither of them look forward to the end of the cycle anymore – given how futile the first forty seven times and the cycles after that has been – only to each other; to each other's touch, to each other's warmth and love.

And that, perhaps, is for the best.

Makoto stops caring, stops wishing for things to be different, stops looking for a way (that might not even exist) out of this nightmare, instead letting himself be muted and weighted by the corruption of the world, allowing himself to be the Makoto he used to be the first time only in the presence of those who remembers.

And to him, that is okay – he's just so, so tired, and he could do nothing to change this.

He allows his mind to fall away into cold apathy and silence, living out the rest of his lives in relative peace.

When he jolts awake after an unknown number (one that is far too large for him to even begin to count) of half-hearted attempts to free himself from these countless and meaningless lives he's doomed to repeat until eternity ends, something feels different.

He looks up first and foremost, noticing another person right across from him. A person that, probably close to a few thousand lives Makoto had lived before, does not exist. Makoto blinks, rubs the weariness and exhaustion away from his eyes, and looks again and yep, he totally isn't hallucinating.

(He had, admittedly, hallucinated a lot of things during the time spent in his nightmarish limbo. Like seeing Aragaki when he was already dead, or Ryoji who should already be gone and awaiting the final Full Moon – the latter of which might not have been so much a hallucination as a vision, a lingering image of Ryoji that remains with him, manifesting through his now unbreakable bonds with Death and Death alone.)

Who are you? Makoto almost asks, but stills his tongue, instead watching the girl before him—

The girl who wears casual spring clothing, with orange scarf and light-colored sweater, on her neck the exact copy of his MP3, with its color changed to pink. Makoto watches with bated breath, unsure of what this person is, his brain trying and failing to find any memories that he might have about this person—

"…Makoto?"

The voice, unmistakably Ryoji, comes from behind him. And Makoto whips around fast enough for him to feel the half-crack that jolts his mind to full wakefulness—

And there, standing beside him outside of the Dark Hour in fucking April, looking as real and as human as he could've been is Ryoji. Ryoji, who should be waiting for his arrival at the dorm, who should not be here and tangible and alive—

"What," He deadpans, feeling happiness and fear and dread climbing up his fingertips, all at once, and oh – it had been so long since he was overcome with emotions that he couldn't help but let his anger and bitterness drip through his teeth and into his words. "The. Actual. Fuck?"

And when no answer comes, all Makoto could do is stares at those bright blue eyes, dumbfound yet alight with long lost hope renewed—

Oh my god, a part of him says as he turns to the strange girl with red eyes and auburn hair, who keeps her attention to the Iwatodai pamphlets in her hands, who he doesn't know.

"Oh my god," Ryoji breathes, mimicking Makoto's sudden realization. "Makoto—"

"Yeah," He breathes, looking at the girl once more. "Something's different."

They both feel it, deep within them, Makoto is certain – that whatever had happened this time, too, isn't something that is supposed to happen—

—But they couldn't help but allow themselves to hope, that they might finally be free of this nightmare, and that Makoto would finally be given the chance to truly die for the last time.