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listenheresweaty · 1 year

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REVIVEBUR X READER (and Tommy, Platonically) PART TWO

This is still terrible and long. I have very little motivation

part 3 out soon

Rating: PG-13

It was raining the day that Tommy decided to invite Wilbur to dinner. He had tolerated Wilbur's presence at your house before, but that had been mostly outside, while the two of you had been growing your mushroom garden.

Wilbur had been only slightly annoying that day: no real taunts, only vague attempts to get Tommy to leave you. And a storm was brewing, so Tommy and you decided that Wilbur might as well stay there for dinner.

Wilbur was ecstatic. Finally some progress. Delusional, he was convinced that he'd be able to get Tommy to come with him-- his brother, family by blood.

So he got worse. A mixture of desperation, exhilaration of being supposedly so close to his goal and the strange, unwelcome and warm feeling that swelled in his chest when he saw a third bowl of mushroom stew placed on the table-- the dizzying, borderline terrifying feeling of belonging in such a peaceful, domestic scene that set off alarm bells in his head, telling him that it was wrong, wrong, wrong.

As Wilbur got more... well, toxic, Tommy's face soured more and more, clearly regretting his decision.

You tried to get Wilbur to shut up and just enjoy the meal, but the interference on your part only incensed him further. He snapped at you, which led to Tommy snapping at him.

Which of course, ended with an argument between the brothers, Wilbur questioning Tommy's loyalty.

"Tommy, I'll ask you this one last time. Do you see me as your brother? Do you? 'Cause you're not acting like it!" Wilbur asked.

Tommy's face twisted, but said nothing.

"Do you?" Wilbur repeated, glaring at him sternly.

But Tommy said nothing, only clenched his jaw, looking close to tears.

Slowly, the creases in Wilbur's faces smoothed, as if something was dawning on him. He stared at his younger brother with a slack expression.

Then, Wilbur grabbed his jacket and turned to leave, and Tommy fled in the opposite direction, locking himself inside his room.

You tried to intercept Wilbur and get him to stay, but he shook you off, gaze trained on the door as he avoided looking you in the face. He stormed out.

You retreated and wandered to Tommy's room and knocked quietly. No response. You heard him sniffle somewhere inside.

To be clear: Tommy still loves Wilbur. It's a mix of childish pride, doubt, and hurt that keeps him from saying it out loud. Tommy may be Wilbur's brother, but is Wilbur his?

After a few minutes, a click echoes through the hallway as Tommy opens his door. You hold out your arms and Tommy collapses against you, trembling but not crying. Somehow, he's too tired to cry.

---

Wilbur doesn't return for two weeks.

You finally manage to get Tommy to leave the house and get his mind off things. Tommy organizes a camping trip with Tubbo and Ranboo, and goes to spend the weekend in the woods (you secretly message Philza and ask him to watch over them).

This leaves only you in the house. Although you had grown accustomed to solitude during your life, Tommy's absence leaves the house feeling almost foreign, too silent.

All the lights are off, except the ones in the kitchen, where you're hunched over the counter, scrutinizing your architectural plans for an expansion towards the cliffside. You were making some edits on the placement of the staircase when you heard a resounding thump from somewhere behind you.

you glance around the darkness surrounding the dimly-lit kitchen. As your eyes adjust, you spot the dark blue square of the window amongst the blackness, the sparse light of the moon making the outside world vaguely visible as you approached to peer out.

A clang, this time farther away. You caught sight of the shed door opening, and a tall, lanky figure stumbling inside.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Slipping on your jacket and shoes, you marched outside, swinging the shed door open with a frown on your face.

You were met with a very drunk, very distraught Wilbur Soot having an emotional breakdown on the floor of your gardening shed, right next to your fertilizer.

You stared. "What...?" You didn't finish your sentence. You honestly didn't know how, there were so many things to be asked.

What are you doing here? What's wrong? What are you drinking, can I have some? What in the world inspired you to come here, of all places?

The man squinted up at you (although you doubted he could really comprehend what he was seeing) reproachfully.

"This shed is full of fucking rusted nails." He manages through shaky and slurred speech. "Don't you pay attention to what state your home is in? You should care more, you know, now that you're responsible for T--" He cuts himself off.

"Shed renovations are on my to-do list, don't worry." You mumble. "...He cares about you, you know?"

He knew who you were talking about.

You continue. "He misses you, truly. He's just a little fragile--"

"You think I don't know that???? You think I haven't seen what has happened to him, what I've--- what has been done to him? Do you think I'm blind?" Wilbur lashes out almost convulsively. He clenches his jaw, digging his nails into the palms of his hands. You frown and kneel down in front of him, grabbing his hands to make stop before he starts bleeding. He trembles but doesn't pull away, eyes fixed on the ground between you. After a moment, you let go, moving to sit back.

Wilbur takes a swig of the bottle tucked in his trenchcoat--you hadn't even noticed it.

"if you keep this up, you'll end up six feet under again." You warned him gently.

"well, maybe I should, huh?" he rasped, spitting out this statement before he had much time to think. His eye twitched and he lapsed into silence once again. He continued to glare at you, as if challenging you to say something. When you didn't say anything, he spoke again, as if the words were being drawn out of him against his will

"Maybe I should---- maybe---" he wouldn't finish his sentence, his breath was getting shallower, hands shaking. He laughed, a bitter, wet sound that devolved back into sobbing

You look at this pathetic, skrunkly disaster of a man.

And you scooch beside him, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him into a hug. Wilbur slumps weakly against your shoulder, too drunk to remember that he's supposed to hate you. Maybe he's even forgotten who he's talking to. All he knows is that there is something there, something warm, something that isn't a train station bench or the clouded, wary gazes of people who used to be his allies.

You hold him a bit tighter, smoothing his hair with one hand. He's limp in your hold, trembling. He's so quiet you wouldn't even know he was crying if it wasn't for your jacket getting wetter as he pressed his face into your shoulder and sobbed. When he seemed to have calmed down the slightest bit, you asked him how far away his house was. It took him a while to register the question.

He shook is head, face still buried against your shoulder. He slurs, saying that he doesn't have a house.

"The Burger Van, then?"

"Th..that's at th' LLas Nevadas bord'r.."

"Do you want to stay here for the night? Or maybe find a room to rent in the nearby village?"

It took him even longer to respond to this question, and you had begun to wonder if he had fallen asleep.

"Wilbur?"

"...village." he murmurs.

You nod and pry yourself away from him, helping him stand. It's a short walk to the village, and the innkeeper asks no questions. You lead him to a small room-- one bed, one window and a vase with some dried-up plant-- and plop him onto the bed. He drops like a sack of flour, passed out cold on top of the sheets. You slip a blanket over him and place a bucket and towel next to the bedside (the hangover would probably get him sick).

You bid your goodbyes to the apathetic innkeeper and head back home.

Tommy arrives from his camping trip a day and a half later, abuzz with excitement and energy. He thrums like a live wire, yammering nonstop about how they found a beehive in the forest and created a cult with Tubbo as their leader, committed some light arson, ate some acrons (with the shell, obviously).

"I nearly drowned. I fell in the river and Tubbo's arms were too short to reach me, and obviously Ranboo's too much of a pussy to go into the water. Thank god for big man Philza Minecraft, he appeared out of literally nowhere and pulled me out. 10/10 would recommend Mr. Minecraft as a lifeguard. Best man for a near death experience."

"Hmm." You aren't able to get many words in, and settle for just listening to the boy rant as the two of you meander down a path to visit Snowchester.

"I've been waiting for Tubbo to ask me to become Michael's godfather." Tommy says. "How sick would that be? I'd make a great mob boss. Of course, people wouldn't come to me on the day of daughter's wedding because it would be my wedding, to my many wives--"

"Uh--"

"Oh, look Ranboo's over there! What a bitch. He gets even uglier up close, believe it or not."

"I--"

Tommy ran off to harass his friend. You sighed and leaned against a tree. You watched over them for a while, occasionally pausing to chat with the travelers that would pass by on the road: Puffy and Niki, Foolish, Purpled.

Eventually, you heard the footsteps approach and then falter. You glanced over and made eye-contact with Wilbur. He looked pale and sickly, squinting in the sunlight, clearly not able to handle the light in his hungover state.

He stares in silence, a distant frown on his face. You expect him to say something snarky, but instead he turns his gaze back to the road, and wordlessly continues on his way.

iill make part 3 soon i swear

#revivedbur x reader #revivebur x reader #revived wilbur #dsmp wilbur #c: wlbr #crimeboys #wilbur soot x reader #c wilbur #c tommy #dsmp x platonic reader #dsmp x y/n #dsmp x reader #idk what im doing rn tbh #philza minecraft is there (not physically)#bench trio is mentioned #Still on the run from the IRS /j but its getting better #wilbur soot #sweaty “writes”

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dangans-ur-ronpas · 6 days

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Chapter 19

(blowing a lil party horn and firing confetti poppers) YIPPEEEE

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

sorry to the ishimondo fans

this is the one with an execution!!!

@digitaldollsworld my bestie my lord my homie <333

Content warning tags: descriptions of injury and mild gore, character death, canon-typical violence, guns

< previous - from start - next >

��NO!”

Owada’s shout is loud enough to startle Byakuya out of the slight torpor he had fallen into, too busy trying to fend off the migraine that was threatening to make him sick. He jerks, eyes blinking open to see Owada leaning in Ishimaru’s direction, his entire frame tense and trembling with restraint.

“It’s okay, Taka, you don’t have to say it,” He’s babbling, talking in a rush. His complexion is blanched, with fear or desperation, maybe both. “It’s okay, okay? I’ll tell them. It’s fine.”

“You really should let him-” Kirigiri starts to say, but Owada shakes his head vigorously, his hair bounces side-to-side.

“No, I’m not gonna make him cover for me any longer. I’m not gonna make him- make him lie for me.” He cuts Kirigiri off, before drawing himself up tall. “I did it. Okay? I killed him. I killed Chihiro.”

“Mondo-” Makoto starts to say, but Owada barrels through him like a steam train. His voice has the same, strained quality of a whisper, but it feels shockingly loud at the same time, the only thing audible in the entire room.

“It was - I know I was calm. Earlier. When Chihiro told me everything. And - I really was supportive. I was happy for him, so happy for him, you saw me Makoto, that was all real. But-” He pauses to take a sharp breath, and Byakuya wonders if he looks as insane as he sounds, leaning over the edge of the railing, like a seasick man over the edge of a rocking ship. Spewing words like he’s trying to empty his stomach of them. “I was thinking about it after, and I just. I just got so fucking mad, I mean - we all have secrets, and mine is - I know it’s probably not the worst one here, but it’s something I’ve been holding on to for so long, and he was just. Flaunting it around? Like it was something to be proud of?” He snorts a laugh, ugly and demeaning. “If it was that easy, then what the hell have I been doing all this time?”

His voice breaks, and for a moment his shoulders slump. But he regains his composure just as quickly, drawing himself back up with a shuddering breath. “I.. on the way back to the trophy room, I couldn’t stop feeling angry. It was like I couldn’t see anything else but red, I wasn’t paying attention to anything else. And when I got back I saw - I saw Taka, injured, and Chihiro standing over him -” He swallows. “It’s not an excuse. I know Chihiro would’ve never hurt him, never hurt anyone - but I was so angry and he was there, and there was a trophy on the floor, with blood on the corner, so I just…”

No one says a word. The implication of what he had done hangs over them all, like a fog - like a body, Byakuya thinks. Fukawa hadn’t been able to pin Chihiro as high up as Syo, but it feels like the boy was watching over them. A ghost listening silently from the rafters.

“...Then, tell us. If you did kill Chihiro, how did you do it?” Kirigiri asks at last, and Owada makes a sound crossed between a sob and a groan.

“I - I just sort of blanked out, when it happened. When I came to, he was there, and - I didn’t know what to do.” He lifts his face, and Byakuya can make out the shine of tears, the gray pallor of his skin. “So I took Taka to the nurse’s room first. And bandaged him up. And then I grabbed supplies to clean up the scene - that’s where I got a sheet to wrap Chihiro up in, and the gauze pads to soak up the blood.” He’s slowed down now. The words come tiredly, laboriously. “And then I…I was just thinking about cleaning up the room at first. That was all I could do, so I just did it. I wasn’t thinking about my survival or anything, or the fact that I might end up getting killed by this fucking bear - I just. I was planning on confessing to it all, but I didn’t want the place where he died to be so…so messed up.”

“Oh, Mondo…” Hagakure breathes quietly, grievingly. Owada’s head twitches, but he presses on.

“I went to check up on Taka, and when I came back, the body - Chihiro - he was gone. Sheet and all.” He laughs again, another twisted sound. “I thought, maybe it was all a dream? Maybe I was going crazy and Chihiro wasn’t dead, and all that blood was from Taka’s injury? I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t want to think. But I went back to what I was doing, and then a little later, the announcement went off. And you all know what happened after that.”

The room is silent for a long moment. No one says a word, and Byakuya can only just make out the sound of breathing, the only indication of life. And, a slight, quiet rattling; Ishimaru was trembling slightly, but still not uttering a sound.

In the silence, all Byakuya can feel is a storming, pitch-dark rage; rage for Chihiro, killed over something so pointless and without warning, rage at Fukawa for framing him, and rage at Owada for hiding it all. For losing control of himself in the first place. “So afterwards, Fukawa went downstairs and found the body. If we consider the sheet around Chihiro’s corpse and the scene cleaned of blood, that also helps explain how she was able to hold off Syo for so long.” He says, disgustedly. “But, the bloodied gauze in the library. I’m assuming that you were the one who put it there? Whatever happened to confessing?”

“I was! …I was, planning to confess to all of it. But then I saw Chihiro’s body, and - and as everyone was talking about Syo, I saw you holding the file and the blood, and I thought… I thought I had a chance. I mean, you were right there, and…I knew that Makoto wouldn’t have been able to back you up. I stuffed the gauze through the gap between the library door hinges while everyone was investigating.” Owada looks up for the first time, and Byakuya can’t see what look he’s wearing. And he feels glad for that; he doesn’t want to see whatever simpering face Owada has, pleading for forgiveness, miserable and sullen. “I know it was wrong, but all the pieces just seemed to fit together so perfectly, and the more time that went on, the more believable it seemed, and- I’m sorry. I really am.”

And Byakuya wants to scream.

What use is your worthless apology, he wants to rage. It wouldn’t resolve anything - in the end, he had still been accused, and humiliated, and now utterly disgraced. He was still blind and disabled. Chihiro was still dead. “All this, because you couldn’t decide if you wanted to live or die? Did you never consider if you deserved to?” He hisses, and Owada actually flinches back.

“I know I don’t. I’m sorry.” He repeats quietly, and he sounds so hollow and drained that Byakuya finds it hard to maintain his anger, all the heat and passion dissipating in an instant like smoke. It leaves him feeling empty, bewildered, and so, so tired.

“...Well. It seems that it’s time to vote, no?” Celeste claps her hands lightly, a smile in her voice. “Monokuma, won’t you please?”

“Since you asked so politely…I was still enjoying this dee-light-ful soap drama, but for my precious student, I will oblige!” Monokuma bounces up to its feet, one arm raised high in preparation to call the vote. “Everyone-”

“Wait.” Kirigiri interrupts. She hasn’t looked away from Owada once, her pale face turned towards him this entire time like a hawk. “Something’s not right.”

“Wha- what do you mean?” Hagakure asks. “It’s pretty cut and clear by now, right?”

“It’s suspicious. Why put in so much effort trying to pin the crime on Byakuya, and then confess so suddenly now?” Kirigiri rebuts. “And we still haven’t heard Taka’s testimony.”

“Man…come on, Kiri. Just look at him. I don’t think he’s in any shape to talk.” Hagakure shakes his head. “And - I think we shouldn’t push this on any longer than it needs to be.”

“Our lives are on the line. I don’t want to move on until we’re entirely sure.”

“He’s already confessed, though…isn’t this enough?” Yamada lets out a long-suffering sigh. “And, I can’t see any indication of anyone else who might’ve done it.”

“No, but Kyoko has a point,” Asahina interjects. “We almost got tricked once already into thinking it was Byakuya, right? We should be careful.”

“Yes. We should err on the side of caution,” Ogami agrees. “I can’t see the harm in having Taka speak, and…I cannot trust Mondo’s confession entirely. No matter how logical it seems.”

“He can’t,” Owada cuts in, that desperate tinge on his voice again. “I keep telling you guys- can’t you just leave him alone? Please?” He hangs his head low. “I know - I’ve done bad by you guys, I’m not exactly the easiest to get along with, but please, just…he’s been through a lot. Can’t you cut him a break?”

“Erm…Can you kids make up your mind?” Monokuma is still standing, balanced precariously on the tips of its toes with one arm still straining upwards. “My stitches are ‘bout to pop, you know!!”

During this whole time, Makoto was silent. Thinking again, Byakuya recognized, as he usually does with his chin tucked under a curled finger, his foot tapping a quiet rhythm against the floor.

“Okay, then. Taka doesn’t have to talk.” He says slowly. “But in that case - Taka, can you please take off your bandage? So we can see the wound?”

“The wound-?” Owada sputters, taken aback by the sudden request. “Wha- Makoto, what are you…?”

“Something about the whole story has been bothering me. Mondo, I know that you, uh…sometimes, you react kinda strongly, I guess, to stuff that makes you mad, but you’re also really caring. I find it hard to believe that you’d twist up on Chihiro like that so fast.” Makoto drops his hand to a fist at his side, clenched tight. “If the trophy really did hit Taka as bad as you said - where he got hit by the edge of it - then the wound should also be really bad, right?” He turns back to Ishimaru. “Taka, please. You don’t need to say anything, but- please, just show us.”

“No way, he doesn’t need to-” But Owada stops suddenly, slack-jawed as he stares.

Watching as Ishimaru slowly unwinds the stained, white strips wrapped around his head with shaky hands.

—

“As I thought,” Kyoko says, as the last bandage falls away. “There’s nothing there to constitute that amount of blood on that bandage, is there?”

And it’s true. The pile of linen that now litter the floor around Taka’s feet is stained and spotted through with blood, but there’s no sign of an injury anywhere on his head. There’s not even a bump, or a bruise.

Makoto swallows thickly, before he continues. “Taka, you never hit your head at all, did you?” And Taka flinches, face somehow blanching paler. “You’re the one that killed Chihiro.”

“No, he didn’t, it was me-!” Mondo throws out an arm in Taka’s direction, as if trying to shield him from the accusations. “I keep telling you - I was the one who did it, I killed Chihiro-”

“No you didn’t. You were covering for him.” This was the worst. Mondo - he was violent at the worst of times, but ultimately kind, and extremely loyal - and right now, Makoto was going to kill his best friend.

“Are you stupid or something? Makoto, hey-” There’s a strange grin twitching on the corner of Mondo’s mouth, like this was some joke he could laugh off. “I’m telling you - how many times do I have to tell you? It was me.”

“It wasn’t-”

“It was!”

It goes on like this for a while. Everyone else is silent - or, it feels like they’re silent. Makoto can’t really hear them, not over the rush in his own head, or Mondo’s desperate, hysteric words, denying the accusation, insulting Makoto and everyone else, cursing, pleading, screaming. It’s the same as when Leon was condemned, when all he could do at the end of it was wail, ‘stupid, stupid, stupid!’ until Makoto pointed out the toolkit, the undeniable proof that it had to be him. Or, when it was Byakuya-

And he stumbles a bit, his rebuttal stuttering as he falters. He remembers the look on Byakuya’s face as he asked about his handbook, with the knowledge that he couldn’t bring it out himself. Not without revealing it to Monokuma. And therefore forcing him to admit it by his own words, the one thing he wanted to conceal from everyone else in the room. The betrayal, the hatred - just thinking about him made Makoto want to disappear.

But there’d been no other choice. Kyoko told him as much when they were investigating; ‘There’s a likelihood that you will have to reveal his secret during the trial,’ she had said, as they inspected the still-damp floorboards of the trophy room. ‘It may be the only way to clear his name.’

He’ll hate me for it, Makoto had protested, and she had just shrugged and turned back to inspecting the trophies, one of which had small dots of blood at the corner of its marble base.

‘Would you rather live being hated or die knowing you could have prevented it? He’ll get over it if he wants to survive.’

Easy for her to say, he thinks, as Mondo screams something at him, an barb so ugly it made him feel equal parts furious and sick with guilt, because Mondo would probably never say such a thing otherwise if it weren’t for this. She’s never had to do this before.

“Dammit, show me the proof! If he did do it, what’s the proof!” Mondo shouts, accompanied by a loud bang as he slams his hands against the railing. “You don’t have any goddamn proof, you little shit! So don’t just stand there and say shit you don’t know!”

“That’s enough.”

For a moment, it’s hard to place who said that. The words were spoken so quietly, after all, and so raspy it was hard to discern whose voice it was. But Byakuya cocks his head, and turns to look in Taka’s direction with a frown.

Taka is still as still as ever, but one hand rests on the bannister, and he’s leaning forward. “That’s enough, Mondo,” He says again, louder, before coughing into his elbow, clearing his throat. “Please…just stop.”

Mondo looks like he was slapped across the face, mouth agape in shock. “Wh-what are you saying?” He tries to laugh, but it sounds more like a sob than anything. “Taka - bro, it’s okay, you fell and hit your head-”

“Mondo. That’s enough,” He repeats. His eyes are hollow; Makoto finds it hard to look him in the face. “I killed Chihiro.”

Kyoko is the only one who speaks up to ask: “How?”

Taka talks slowly, haltingly, as if trying to dredge the memories up. “It - it was after Mondo left with Chihiro and Makoto. To the cafeteria. I was still cleaning, alone - when I’m alone, I think. About things, my family outside the school, if they’re alive, my secret, my grandfather - and then Chihiro came back. Alone.” He sways slightly, steadied only by his hand, white-knuckled against the wood. “And - as he was talking - I was still thinking - and -”

He pauses, taking slow, deep breaths. No one says a word. Makoto’s not sure if he’s even breathing.

“It just - it wasn’t fair. Him, confessing it - it was so easy, for him. He was so happy about it. My grandfather - if you knew, you would hate me. That’s how it’s always been, everyone who’s ever known about it, hated me. But he was so happy, and he -” He takes another deep, shuddering breath. “It was an accident. I - I just pushed him, I didn’t think I pushed him hard, but he hit the shelf. And, the trophy…”

It’s not hard to figure out what happened afterward. Makoto can practically imagine it, though he doesn’t want to; Chihiro going up to Taka, and Taka, too caught up in his own trauma, backing away, combatting his own fury and dread. And Chihiro, walking up closer to check on him, only to get shoved bodily backwards, into the trophy shelf, and then-

Mondo is shaking his head, tears falling silently down his face - muttering ‘no’ under his breath, over and over, like a mantra. Taka turns to him, a sad sort of smile tugging at his mouth.

“Thank you, Mondo. For trying,” And he sounds so genuine and so incredibly sad. “But - I can’t let my family be disgraced anymore. I can’t let anyone die for my sake.”

“No, no, no,” Mondo repeats, and despite his size, he shakes like a leaf. “No, don’t, don’t, Taka,” And his voice breaks. “Don’t- Please don’t, I won’t be able to take it, I can’t take it, Taka- not again-”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, don’t you dare fucking apologize-! Just-” He breaks down fully now, and turns away, one hand raised to his eyes.

“Forgive me,” Celeste interrupts, still wearing her indecipherable smile, unnatural red eyes narrowed slightly as she addresses Taka. “But I recall you were the first to suggest sharing secrets the night Monokuma revealed the motive, no?”

Taka recoils slightly at that, bowing his head. “I…I was. I thought - I could be prepared. If it’s the right thing to do, I could do it. But-” he turns away, his brows twisted into a scowl. “I…”

“Enough.” Kyoko sighs. “There’s no point in making pointless allegations. We have our explanation. There’s nothing left to say.”

And she casts Makoto a look, which Makoto interprets immediately, and he sighs.

—

As Makoto explains, it started when he and Chihiro were walking around the first floor, planning to find and talk to everyone Chihiro had yet to disclose his secret to.

After they had spoken to Owada, Chihiro went to talk with Ishimaru alone - Ishimaru, who was so rule-abiding and careful that no one would assume him to be of any danger - and that was how he died. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, and completely by accident.

Owada was the one who found the body, and to protect his friend, who was reeling from shock, he concocted a story as he wrapped the corpse in a cloth and mopped up the blood. To claim that he killed Chihiro, that Taka was merely injured, and therefore protect his friend from harm.

It was during this time that Fukawa was in the library, making her own confession, before Byakuya’s swift rejection sent her fleeing. As she went down the first floor, she saw the body, and with the cord that was tangled around her ankle, she strung it up outside the library door in a poor likeness of Syo’s handiwork. In some twisted display of vengeance, or a demand for attention, or something; and when it was done, overwhelmed by the blood and exhausted by her own perseverance, she took the sheet to the bathroom with her and collapsed, where Kirigiri found her moments later.

Byakuya listens to him explain it through a fog, feeling distant from it all. As if he was merely observing it from behind a broken, filthy screen, the sounds tinny and the visuals shot. He watches as Owada clings to Ishimaru, screaming for mercy at Monokuma’s feet. He watches as Ishimaru is dragged ruthlessly away anyway, behind the steel doors of the execution chamber.

He watches the execution, from behind a glass window. Ishimaru standing in a gleaming white car, the sunroof pulled down, driving through a street lined with the black-and-white shapes of more Monokumas, cheering indistinctly as confetti rains around him. The Monokuma in the seat next to him is holding a sign, lifting his arm to make him wave, poking his cheek to make him smile.

There’s a loud crack, and Ishimaru seems to stumble, a bloom of blood on the shoulder of his white uniform. But he doesn’t fall; he must be held up by some kind of mechanism or another, because a moment later he’s upright again, still being forced to wave, to smile, even as the cheering turns to jeers and he starts being pelted with what looks like rotten fruit, the dark red shapes of tomatoes smashing against his head. Another gunshot, and this time it’s his leg, a large, dark spot in his thigh. Another, in his stomach, and he seems to cough a little, blood trickling from his mouth.

There must be a microphone or something pinned to Ishimaru’s collar, because Byakuya can hear his breathing, harsh and labored, pitched with fear. The whimpering he can’t quite suppress, the jumps in his throat as he tries to swallow. And, the quiet whisper, barely audible behind the shouting, the gunshots, the noise of it all -

‘I’m sorry-

The final shot is a thunderous noise accompanied by a sudden, gaping pit between his eyes. He slumps, and the scene stills at last; the crowd stops yelling, the car freezes in its tracks. The lights go off, plunging Ishimaru’s lonely form into darkness.

And through it all, Owada never stopped screaming once.

Byakuya tears his eyes away, holding onto the railing of the stand to keep from falling as he steps down. It’s a similar scene as the aftermath of the last trial, everyone either comforting each other or wallowing in their own grief, and Monokuma giggling over them.

“Oh, oh, oh! That was good! Not even ol’ John could’ve done it better!” It sings, dancing between them. “I got a little antsy earlier when you called for the vote the first time, but you all pulled through with fly-ing colors!! Amazing performance! Especially that last confession, I was so moved!” It cackles, twirling and landing right next to Owada, who was on his knees, hands plastered against the window as if praying. “Such a lovely display of friendship at the end there, or was it really friendship? Whatever the case, the bond between men sure is something! I don’t think I’ve ever seen - whoops!”

Owada had grabbed him, and now rises with the bear dangling between his hands. His arms are trembling like Monokuma’s the heaviest thing he’s ever held.

“You,” He hisses, and his voice is wet and choked through. “If it wasn’t for you- if it wasn’t for you-!”

“Puhu, do you ree-ally want to do this, Mister Owada? Didn’t you learn your lesson on the first day of school?” Monokuma swings its feet in the air. “I’d hate to punish you after that amazing show-”

“I don’t care.” He spits. As Byakuya draws closer, he can hear the quiet splat of fat tears, striking the floor. “I don’t care, you killed him- I should tear you to pieces right now-”

And he stops, as Byakuya places a hand on his elbow. “Put it down.”

He’s sure that the face Owada is giving him is positively murderous. “Why should I,” he snarls, and his words are still thick with grief. “The fucker-”

“Even if you break this one, another one will take his place. And there’s probably countless replacements.” Byakuya sighs. What was he doing? He wasn’t sure himself. “What are you planning to accomplish? Other than a very messy suicide?”

“You bastard-” He drops Monokuma, who lands with a squeak, and grabs Byakuya instead, hoisting him by the collar. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? What does it matter to you if I die?” His last words sound less like a threat and more like a genuine question.

Instead of immediately replying, Byakuya casts a glance over his shoulder. Only a few people were watching them, the rest too preoccupied by their own misery. “...Take a look. There’s only so many of us left.” Byakuya looks back to Mondo, and even through the haze, he can see his face is pinched into a look of anguish. ”Did you hear what his last words were? Because I did.”

The grip on his shirt slackens, and his feet meet stable ground again. He pushes Owada’s limp hands away. “I don’t care if you want to die. But take responsibility at least.” He glares at him, his kneeling form. “We can’t leave until everyone’s on the elevator, so stand up and walk.”

There’s a part of him that wants to berate Owada - to tell him that Ishimaru likely never wanted his help in the first place, that all he accomplished was unnecessary strife - but such a thing doesn’t sit right with him. That would be the actions of someone petty and sore, a pathetic loser who couldn’t let it go; and right now, all Byakuya wants to do is sleep.

He steps onto the elevator. Celeste is already there, poised as ever, as is Yamada, who is mumbling unhappily to himself. Kirigiri and Makoto join them shortly after.

Makoto balks slightly when he sees Byakuya, tripping at the threshold with a yelp. But he straightens up quickly, glances around, and slowly, hesitantly, walks to Byakuya’s side. “Um…”

“Be silent.” He snaps. Makoto recoils instantly. “Do not speak to me. The deal is null.”

“Byakuya-”

He turns away, focusing on the metal grates of the elevator walls. The wires are bent into some kind of honeycomb pattern, though it’s not like Byakuya could make out exactly what.

He half-expects Makoto to say something more, but the elevator ride up is silent and still.

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#thpff #thpff chapters #byakuya togami #danganronpa fanfiction #my beta reader called me sick for including that microphone in the execution but to be fair i think monokuma did that. for 'accessibility'#hiii roman btw!! <33 #this chap was soooo fun to write tbh i loved writing the execution...sorry to the fans #the execution was based of the original unused execution concepts btw!#idk what it was called originally but in my head im calling it 'motorcade in the plaza' (jfk reference)#also whoah shit an on-time upload? amazing #im so proud of myself honestly bc im also laid up in bed rn with awful awful chest and tummy pains #im ok btw its da flu + cold + weird ribcage etc etc #i might not update for a while after this i gotta focus on some irl stuff...will do my best to return soon tho!!!

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