Sweat dripped from her brow as the fire before her roared, blasting waves of heat at her. She could hear Makoto's panicked words, though they didn't quite register in her mind. Not quite sure on what to do, she just looked around with wide eyes, until her gaze fell on him. Quickly, she extinguished the fires, reducing them to a low flame. With shaking hands, she batted at the thin veil of smoke at her face before reaching to her right to grab-
"Ah, that's the sugar." Makoto said before she could reach the small jar.
"O-Oh, sorry." She muttered, quickly withdrawing her hand. She opened the salt container and pinched a small amount before sprinkling it over the eggs, which had already started to form. 'This is more intense than I thought it would be.'
She didn't care whether or not it was a bother, she wasn't going to let him do everything for her. Cooking was an essential life skill anyway, so she might as well learn how to do it properly while she had the time. And with someone who actually knew how to cook by her side, it should've been pretty easy.
Should've.
"Don't worry too much about the knobs, you can just keep the heat at medium-low for now." He said. "Just wait until the edges of the egg start to form, then pull them towards the center."
"A-Alright…"
"You can do this. Everyone struggles at first, you know?" He said with a gentle smile. It almost gave her a heart attack.
She nodded stiffly and used the plastic spatula to move the eggs to the middle of the pan.
"Keep moving and turning them over. They're almost done." Makoto said. "Be sure to dig under them, so that they don't stick to the pan… Oh, not like that, gentler. You also have to… Here, let me show you."
She almost gasped as he grabbed her wrists and began puppeteering her hands, smoothly operating the spatula. She stared unblinkingly at the pan, though she couldn't seem to concentrate on his example. It was like something in her brain had shut off.
'This is stupid. Dumb. Just concentrate.'
It was almost impossible. She wasn't at a literal warzone, with bullets flying past her head and explosions going off in the background, but she almost wished she was. It would have been easier to focus. 'Not normal. Don't be stupid.'
Makoto took his hands away, and she immediately returned to rigidly scrambling the eggs around. Though apparently, she was doing better as he didn't raise any more objections. "You can turn the heat off now, but keep moving the eggs."
She followed his orders, practically holding her breath all the while. After a few minutes, she saw Makoto nod out of the corner of her eye. "It's probably good now. Now, all you need to do is plate them."
Exhaling, Mukuro dumped the eggs into a plate that was empty, save for a spoon. They looked like a yellow, soggy pile of cotton. She didn't feel all too hungry, but she tried some anyway - They weren't bad, but they weren't good either. In fact, they were probably the most average tasting eggs that she had ever eaten in her life. Though since it was her first time, that might be a good thing.
"What do you think?" He asked.
"They're okay." She said, staring down at it. 'That should have been way easier. How did I struggle so much?'
"I think I can make them on my own, anyway. Thanks for teaching me." She said tonelessly.
"No problem! I'd be glad to teach you more, if you want to learn about other recipes" He picked up a small piece between his fingertips and tossed it into his mouth. "They're pretty good! Better than my first attempt, anyway."
"Really?" She asked doubtfully.
"Yeah. Even with a cookbook in front of me, I ended up with a tasteless, gray mess."
"You have cookbooks? Did you end up becoming a chef?" She asked. He never expressed any interest in cooking while they were at school together, so it was kind of strange to see him so familiar with it now.
"Huh? Oh, nothing like that. It's just that since I was living alone, I thought that I might as well learn how to make a meal myself, rather than order takeout every day." He shrugged. "Besides, I wanted to have some other talent, rather than being kind of lucky."
"I see."
…
"Oh, I probably should have mentioned this earlier, but Miaya sent me a message this morning." Makoto said, as he put the used pan in the sink. "She said that she should be able to see you in two days or so."
She grimaced. Did she really have to talk to a therapist? It seemed weird - She's felt pretty normal for the day, so it seemed unnecessary. She was probably over it by now. It didn't feel right to start having sessions with the 'Ultimate Therapist' considering all of that. Plus, there might've been others who do actually need her. Yes, that's right. She felt normal. Completely. So no one needed to do anything, right.
"Makoto, I don't think I need to see her anymore. I was probably-"
"Don't." Makoto interrupted. He sighed and shook his head. "You tried to… kill yourself. If we just ignore the problem, then it will just get worse. We need to get you help as soon as we can."
"But I don't need help."
"Why?" Makoto demanded. "Why do you always say that you don't need help? Every time we talk about this, you always want to just soldier through everything by yourself. You can't just do that!"
"I can. I can. It's fine. I'm FINE." Mukuro backed up from him, fists clenched. The room was starting to spin. Why couldn't he just see? She couldn't do any of this. It was impossible. Completely impossible. He should understand. How many times had Junko called her stupid, ignorant, ugly, and worthless? She understood her. They understood each other.
And they were the only ones. It was a two-way street, and they were the only drivers. But now she was alone. Ultimate Therapist? What was she going to do? A therapist would just try to pry her secrets open. To see all the things Junko did. But she was dead. That wouldn't be fair. AT ALL. It would be bad. Terrible. Junko would be so disappointed at her. Who would surrender theirselves to interrogation? Let her rest in peace. It was only fair. She deserved to have her memory preserved.
"Mukuro, why? Please, you can tell me! What's wrong?" Makoto pleaded. He took a step forward, causing her to take another step back.
And what would happen if everyone knew about the things Junko did, and what she always said and believed in and wanted? She shuddered. It was impossible to think. They all didn't understand. They couldn't understand. If they saw Junko calling her worthless, they would just point to her and call her abusive, or a bully. But they didn't know. THEY didn't know. Why does everyone always think they know everything?
She called her worthless because that was the truth. Junko understood her.
'I'm worthless. I'm worthless. I'm worthless.'
Was that her voice? Or was it Junko's? She couldn't tell... but did that matter?
"It's okay. I'm okay." She said quietly, almost whispering. Hot puddles of water starting pooling in her eyes. The sensation was almost burning, and it felt alien-like. What was happening to her? She backed up again, only to be met with a wall. Where did that come from? "Don't. I'm okay. I don't need help."
"Mukuro." He repeated. He took small steps towards her, one after another, until he was right in front of her. He was practically at the same height as her now. It was weird, being able to stare straight at him. "Please."
"No. I'm okay." The water slowly dripped down her cheeks. Acid trails. What?
Was…
"Please."
…
"It's not worth it."
"What do you mean?"
She started shaking violently. Her knees began to lock. The room kept spinning and spinning, round and round, how was it possible? It made her sick. But he was covering most of it. He was right there, looking at her. So worried. So caring. It was unnatural, weird, painful.. Stop it. Stop it. "It's not worth it. I'm not worth it, okay? S-So stop. Just stop it."
"..."
"T-There's no point in any of this. So stop it. Just stop. You don't need to… t-try. You don't need to try and fix me. It's okay. Don't waste y-your time." Her heart and lungs were being crushed. She was dying. He was killing her. He didn't understand her. He couldn't help. No one could. He wasn't Junko. He wasn't Junko. He wasn't Junko. No one is. She's dead. No one can help.
'Worthless. Don't waste the effort.'
"Mukuro." He said quietly. Slowly, her eyes rose up to meet his own. They looked… looked... "You aren't worthless, okay? I'm trying to help you because you're important to me. I care a lot about you. Me, Miaya, everyone in our class… Junko too. She wouldn't have wanted you to be like this."
They looked…
"So let us help you. Please."
She stared at him, at a lost for words. The room around them broke and fragmented, turning into nothing. Black void. It was only him. He was the only thing in the room. She wasn't standing. When had she been sitting down like this? For how long? With her back against nothing?
"B-But... You... I can't. It's not worth it. It's not."
"It is. Can you trust me, at least?" He asked gently. "Trust me."
Okay. Okay, okay. Maybe... She could? He hasn't lied to her. But that would mean... No, that was impossible. Was it?
She nodded.
Her body jerked forward, and she was enveloped in something warm. So warm, soft, tender… He was…? Hugging her? It… Breathing was impossible. If she were to press her hand up against her chest, she was sure that there wouldn't even be a heartbeat. She must have been dead. For some reason, she felt at peace with that. Almost happy, even.
It was just so comfortable.
'But it's wrong.'
Warm…. Warm. No, hot. Her hand… It was burning.
She blinked once. Then twice. Junko's face was so clear. Her light blue eyes, so usually sharp and clear, were clouded and unfocused. They seemed to be staring right past her, as if she were invisible. Her lips were slightly parted - The only sound she could hear were her gasping, desperate breaths. The sharp metallic smell of blood invaded her nostrils.
She looked down. Her hand was tightly gripping the jet-black handle of a butterfly knife. The blade of the said knife was… It was embedded in her. Her chest. Junko was stabbed. Someone stabbed Junko. Someone STABBED Junko. She was dying. She could feel her dying.
Mukuro opened her mouth to try and tell her that she was going to get help. To tell her that she would get whoever did this. To tell her to hang on. To scream. But nothing came out. She couldn't say anything.
Why couldn't she let go of the knife? She glared down at her hand which stubbornly refused to obey her commands. The mark of Fenrir stared back up at her, almost accusingly. Thin streams of blood dripped from her fingers and fell on the floor. Drip, drip.
Someone stabbed her.
NO.
Her hand finally let go of the knife. Junko started falling backwards, but before she could hit the marble floor, she caught her. Gently, she lowered her body onto the ground. The knife handle was convulsing, shaking. But there wasn't too much blood. Maybe she would be okay. Maybe she would be okay. She would be. She had to be.
She stared at the knife for a few seconds. It stared back. Pure black. Void. It wasn't even a knife.
It didn't exist. It was nothing. There was just a hole in Junko's chest. There was no knife. No knife, no knife, butterfly or otherwise, not beautiful or black.
It was a shame that the knife vanished. It was one of her favorites. It was one of the few possessions she carried that she really cared about. It was irreplaceable, one of a kind.
She looked back down at her bloodstained hand, and saw that it was carrying the knife.
"I… was the one? I did this."
Oh, her mouth could speak now.
…
Junko was dead. Again. Not again. Why again?
…
She screamed. Finally.
Her eyes shot open.
From her years of ruthless soldier training and time at war, she had become an extremely light sleeper. It was necessary to survive. There were many times where she would be forced to set up camp in the middle of a warzone, to get some rest. For the times when her camp would be discovered by an enemy soldier, she would have to be able to wake at a moment's notice, from the slightest sound disturbance.
Of course, there were also times where she would be sleeping while an ally would keep watch. Most of the time, she never woke up to a footstep, or faint mutters.
She would just wake up to the screams of her fellow mercenaries being shot.
A door opening, rapid footsteps. Then the sound of her door being opened. Her room was almost completely dark, with the only source of light coming from the now-opened door. Even then, almost all of it was being absorbed by the walls. The damned, black, spotless walls. She sat up from her bed so that she could see it. Him. His vague figure, blurry and dark yet so recognizable.
"Mukuro! Are you okay? What happened?" His figure rushed to her bedside. "I heard a scream - Was that you?"
"I… I think so." Mukuro said. She stared at him, eyes squinting in an attempt to focus on his silhouette. It was too dark. Why couldn't he have turned on the lights? That would have made it easier to see him. "Sorry. It was just a dream."
"A dream?" He kneeled down, so that they were at eye-level.
She shuddered. That was new. And vivid. Every single second of the dream seemed to be etched into her brain. Why did she have to kill her? Why did her mind conjure these things up to torment her with? It made her feel sick. It made her feel hurt, and sore, and cold, and fuck, why did she have to be the one to do it?
"What was it about?" He asked gently.
Every alarm in her head went off at the same time. No, she shouldn't tell him. Just don't. It's not worth it.
'But why? I can tell him. It's fine. Please, let me.' She argued to herself.
Why should she? She had probably woken him up, stealing his sleep. It wouldn't be fair to burden him further. Besides, what would be the point in telling him anyway? It wasn't as if he could go inside of her head and fix the problem. It wasn't that easy. No, it would be easier and safer to just ignore him.
'No. I want to do this. He wants to know. Let me tell him.'
There was no point. Even if he did have some way of helping her, why should he? She wasn't worth the effort. Junko said so herself.
'Stop. Please. Stop. Stop. Makoto said. He said it would be worth it. I can trust him. I DO trust him.'
…
"Junko. It… It was about her."
"O-Oh. Mukuro, I… You don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to." Makoto said quickly.
She shook her head firmly. She had made her mind. She had to do this. 'Trust. Let me trust him.'
"No. Makoto, let me tell you. I want to." She leaned forward a bit, and without thinking too much, grabbed his hand. "I can, right? You said that you can help me. Please."
"Mukuro…"
"O-Okay. It was about, well, Junko. I… Oh my god, I stabbed her. Makoto, it was me. I did it this time, and it was just me there, I had my knife and it was just inside of her." Mukuro squeezed his hand. It hurt to think about. It was so wrong. But she had to do this. Right? Maybe. She took a shaky breath and continued. "Her blood was so hot. It burned me. I-I stabbed her, and then the knife was gone and it wasn't, and I just… I just screamed because what else was I going to do?! I didn't know how to save her!"
She was breathing rapidly now, taking in shallow breaths for fractions of a second at a time before releasing them. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead as the details of her dream became clearer and clearer. It was like watching a movie in her head. It was in slow motion, playing frame by frame. "Fuck, there was nothing there. Nothing at all. But… God, I could have torn off some fabric or something and patched her up, right? Why didn't I do that? I killed her. I saw it, I killed her, and-"
"Mukuro, that's enough." Makoto interrupted. "It was just a dream, which means you didn't kill her. Everything's okay."
"I… I know, but… I could have done something." She said. "I could have done something. I could have saved her. Why? Why didn't I do anything?"
"You can't blame yourself for things that you had no control over." He replied. She wished that she could see his eyes right now. Wished that it was brighter, but not too bright. Wished that the walls were painted white, or red, or blue, or green, or purple, or yellow, or orange, or white, or red, or anything. Wished that Junko was alive. That she would leave her alone. "It isn't your fault, you know that right?"
"It is. I failed. That's what happened."
"No, that's wrong!" Makoto doubled his grip on her hand. It felt so warm that it was almost uncomfortable. Almost like her blood. Why was it so similar?
"None of what happened was your fault, both in your nightmare and in reality. You don't have to bear the full weight of her death on your shoulders like this."
'No. But…'
That couldn't have been true. She was a soldier. The entire point of her existence was to fight to protect the things she loved. The person she loved. Junko.
'But I can trust him. He said so. I can trust him I can trust him I can trust him let me trust him please.'
He was just lying to make her feel better, right? He was just nice in that way. Probably didn't want her to feel guilty. Probably wanted for her to feel like it was okay to dodge her responsibilities. He was so nice, so friendly, caring, everything. It's not okay.
'It is. He's… my… friend.'
It felt so disgustingly wrong to even think about that. She couldn't even explain why. Junko was her friend. Junko was her sister. That was it. Wasn't it? That was supposed to be it. Junko herself said so. She didn't have friends, it was impossible. Junko was all she had. JUNKO was all she had. That was the truth.
'I can trust him. He said so. So stop. I… I want to. Stop doing this to me. I hate you. I hate you so much. Leave me alone. I never wanted this. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. Stop doing this to me. Stop. Stop. Stop Stop stopstopstopstop-'
"Mukuro? Are you okay?"
…
The walls. They were shifting, morphing shadows that laughed and taunted at her from the void.
"I… I'm okay. Thanks. I'm going to sleep downstairs, on one of the couches. I don't want to sleep here anymore." She gently withdrew her hand from his grip and got up from her bed. "That's okay, right?"
"H-Huh? Well, I mean, if you really want to sleep on the couches, I guess you can. But why? Is there something wrong with the bed?" Makoto asked, confused.
"No, It's just… um… " Mukuro fumbled. How could she explain that the walls were so fucking terrifying? It didn't make sense. She wished that she could just tear them down, or something. "I… don't feel comfortable sleeping in this room. That's it."
Makoto sat in silence for a bit before speaking. "If it's just that, then how about we switch rooms for the night? I would feel a little guilty if you slept on the couch when a bed is free. I could sleep here, and you could sleep in my bed."
"Okay." She said simply. Fine. Whatever. Just as long as she would be away from those walls.
Aside from some variants in furniture and general decor, Makoto's room looked identical to the guest room. Thankfully, the walls were brown. The same color as his hair, actually. She wondered if he did that intentionally, or if it was just a coincidence. Either way, she liked it. It was even comforting, compared to the sharp, inky sludge that was spread throughout the other room.
She turned off the lights laid down on his bed, resisting the slight urge to open the dresser next to it. After a few seconds of staring up at the ceiling, she pulled the blanket over her. It smelled like him, which made sense, but was surprising nonetheless. The scent was indescribable: Strong, yet subtle, almost like a mixture of pine, gravel, fresh air, and something artificial - industrial, and nostalgic somehow.
It was there that she just started to break down. Tears poured out of her eyes like open faucets, and she had no idea why. It felt like she's been here for years despite it being less than half a week. It was just so much, too much. She curled into a tight ball, protected by the thick, warm covers of the bed and cried more than she had ever done in her entire life.
It was like a tsunami of a hundred different thoughts, emotions, and other incomprehensible things flooding every part of her body. Every single neuron of her brain felt like it was breaking apart. And yet it wasn't terrible. It was just… just.
She stopped eventually, and fell asleep.
There were no dreams.