#have been concocting and reediting this murder case for a very long time but in the end several things stayed the same

[hey-heigo]

Chapter 28

well that's a series wrap on byakuya. thanks for reading everyone. in this final chapter we're gonna flush him down the toilet like a goldfish

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

in case you cant tell i'm a very big fan of that chapter 4 scene where aoi slaps the shit out of byakuya for being a reprehensible human

at what point does 'this might as well happen' not cut it anymore for trauma coping

fellow understander! @digitaldollsworld

Content warning tags: graphic description of vomiting, description of near-drowning symptoms, graphic descriptions of first aid and fatal wound treatment, character death, description of blood/gore, canon-typical violence implied

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They’re cleaning up when the cafeteria doors slam open with a bang, Toko running in with braids whipping wildly, hands clutching something to her chest.

And the first thing she does, as everyone turns to stare at her, is look at Makoto and scream.

“HELP him,” She wails, trembling. “He - the pool, the water-”

Makoto takes a look at what she’s holding in her hands. It’s a key, being held so tightly that it must surely be cutting into her fingers, the keychain jangling. She’s trembling so much that it takes him a moment to read the name, monogrammed in small, neat characters.

And then he’s running, speeding out into the hall, a horrible, dawning feeling of fear clawing at his ankles as he goes.

__

When Byakuya wakes up, it’s to the fading, digital chime of bells, and the taste of coffee and something apple-sour being pressed into his mouth, warm and forcing sweet oxygen down his trachea…

Along with some more water, the pressure forcing a bubble of it down his windpipe, and he flails against the hands on his sternum and face, shoving wildly away to turn over and vomit onto the tile.

Nothing comes up but liquid, disgustingly warm in contrast to the rest of him, tasting vaguely like bile and chlorine. It goes on for a…a while, or maybe just a moment, but it feels like minutes before he finally expels everything that was in him. Leaving him shivering in the aftermath, lying on his side with an aching core of emptiness in his stomach.

For a few moments, he doesn’t move, still coughing slightly with every other breath, mouth foul-tasting and clammy. His skin is damp and cold, freezing through his clothes where he’s pressed against the tile floor, and his chest aches - a twisted sort of blessing, a sign that he was breathing at least - and as it was, everything hurt, his head, his limbs, his ribs. He blinks his eyes open and finds them even more bleary than usual, stinging with water.

“Can you sit up?” Someone asks gently, and there’s a hand at his back ready to support him. He grunts in response and tries to push himself onto his elbows; to minimal success, and in response an arm loops under his shoulders as he nearly lurches over, pulling him into a kneeling position and keeping him steady.

He blinks again, vision clearing somewhat. Purple and white and a strip of viscera-red floating in front of him - Kyoko is kneeling to his right, staring him dead in the face. Standing behind her is Ogami, holding a mass of pale blue. A glance to his opposite side reveals that the one holding him up is Asahina.

A careful, squinting scan reveals that there’s no dark-green shape of Makoto, and Byakuya can’t decide if he’s relieved or bothered by that.

“Here,” Ogami says, and he looks up just in time for something to drop over his shoulders, and he jerks backwards. But it’s only a towel, blue and thick and only a little scratchy, and he clutches it to himself, rubbing his arms to try and work some warmth into them. Ogami passes one to Asahina and Kyoko as well, and they both begin toweling themselves off. 

Only then does Byakuya realize that they must have jumped into the water to save him, and isn’t that a thought. He’s not sure how to feel about it - for the time being, the only thing he could feel was another wave of nausea, as he leans over and retches one more time, chest convulsing painfully, but coming up with nothing.

More humiliatingly, is the hand reassuringly rubbing his back, like he’s a child. Moving stiff and awkward and only slightly warmer than his own skin. “How are you feeling?” Ogami asks as his shoulders stop trembling, and her voice is clinical and calm, and the careful, professional tone of it is almost welcome.

“Lovely,” Byakuya rasps back with a wince, touching his ribs. He turns to glare at Kyoko, who removes her hand. “You know it’s ill-advised to perform mouth-to-mouth CPR if you aren’t trained in it?”

Instead of replying to him, she turns to Ogami. “He’s doing fine.”

“Can you stand?” Asahina tugs at his arm. She sounds uncharacteristically serious. “We should go to the nurse’s office. We need to check for signs of secondary drowning.”

“There’s no need-”

“No, this is serious. We have no idea how long you were in there for.” She tugs at him again. “Come on. You can complain while we walk - can you walk?”

Probably, though it wouldn’t be pleasant. He can feel the distinct sting of raw skin on his wrists and ankles, but they didn’t need to know that. He lets Asahina hoist him up, declines Ogami’s offer to support him with a raised hand - “Where’s Makoto?” He asks, before he can stop himself.

There’s a moment’s pause, as the three girls look at each other for a moment. Kyoko must have lost whatever staring contest they were holding, because she sighs. “While we were pulling you up, Hifumi came and told us there was another body discovered.” She explains, balling the towel up in her hands. “Makoto and Hiro went with him to go check it out. It was the best division of labor considering our skill sets.”

Byakuya feels his shoulders slump somewhat beneath the towel. He probably didn’t go willingly. Not considering the previous day’s events. But Byakuya has the feeling she’s trying to reassure him somewhat, and he scowls. “Yes, I doubt he would be more capable of swimming or first aid than the Ultimate Swimmer and a world-renowned athlete.” He snarks. “I should ask why you didn’t go with him, seeing as you were trying to drown me on dry land. Who’s the victim?”

“Other than you? No idea.” She tosses her towel over him, successfully muffling him before he can say anything more. “We haven’t gone to go see yet, the discovery announcement went off just before you gained consciousness. You should go to the nurse’s office to dry off. You’re a mess.”

He drags the towel off his face and throws it back at her, only for her to catch it harmlessly out of the air. “I don’t need you to tell me that.”

“For someone skilled in multiple languages, it seems you never learned how to say ‘thank you.’”

“For someone who needs to brush her teeth, it seems you don’t know basic manners.”

“Oh my god, guys.” Asahina groans. “Can you please not do this now?”

Continuing to argue would be counter-productive, especially now that the adrenaline was wearing off and the full freezing effect of his damp clothes was becoming evident. He lets Asahina guide him out through the girl’s locker room, watches Kyoko and Ogami continue up the stairs as he’s half-supported, half-led downwards. By the time they get to the nurse’s room, he can barely stop his teeth from chattering, as Asahina pushes him to sit on a cot and rifles out some heating packs from a drawer for him before leaving the room.

She returns a few moments later with her arms draped in white and red and gray-green, and tosses something at him. He only barely catches it, fumbling at the same time with the packs clutched in his hands and arms crossed over his chest. A green mass of cotton - composed of two, smaller masses - it takes him a moment of unfolding and shaking them out until he can recognize the full shape of a pair of sweatpants. “A-a tracksuit?”

“There’s a t-shirt and socks in there too, somewhere,” She tosses down a pair of nondescript white shoes on the ground in front of him with a thump. “Toko ran off with your key, and you shouldn’t stay in those clothes any longer than you have to.” She explains, and he clicks his tongue. irritated but wholly unsurprised. “Hurry up and get changed.”

And he probably should. It feels like his dampened clothes are freezing into a shell against his skin, but he doesn’t move. Staring pointedly at Asahina, eyebrow raised, until she notices, and sighs.

“You can pull the curtains, you know,” She gestures at something above his head, and sure enough, there are pale green sheets hanging from a silver track on the ceiling around either end of the bed.

His face heats a bit. “I…hadn’t noticed.” He says through teeth clenched to stop trembling. He’d rarely been in a school’s infirmary, as communal as it was. “I don’t usually try to be injured enough to be in a place like this.”

Asahina doesn’t reply to that, instead walking over and drawing the privacy curtains around him with a rustle of scraping chains. Immediately his surroundings dim, enclosing him, with the only light streaming from above and below the curtain itself. From the sounds of shuffling cloth and the drip of water outside, it seemed that she was changing as well - Byakuya feels that their positions should be reversed, somehow.

Peeling his damp clothes from his skin is…a less than pleasant experience, especially as his fingertips feel too numb to properly undo his buttons. He manages it though, and the change of clothing is nice - surprisingly comfortable, albeit a half-size too big - and he feels warmer already by the time he pulls the curtains open again.

Asahina had changed as he thought, though her tracksuit is a vivid maroon matching her usual jacket, and was folding her clothes into a neat pile on the table. There’s an array of various materials spread on a tray next to her, a roll of bandages and gauze, a tube of ointment. There’s the silver shine of a stethoscope stark around her neck. “Okay, stay seated. I need to check if there’s water in your lungs.”

“You’re well-versed in this.”

She shrugs one shoulder as she sits down and rolls over on a stool, carrying the tray like a waiter. “Only kind of.” She says off-handedly. “You know, with being ‘the Ultimate Swimmer’ and all.” She doesn’t sound particularly proud of it for some reason, and doesn’t elaborate further. “I don’t know how to use any of the fancy machine stuff in here, so we’re gonna have to do this the old-fashioned way. Breathe in and out, deeply, when I tell you. And tell me if anything hurts.”

The stethoscope is cold, even through layers of clothing. He sits up straight, feeling strangely quiet. Much like the night before, where he found himself compliant and unopposed to Makoto’s whims. It was easier to follow along what someone told him, than to think.

It must be the shock. He takes another deep breath as Asahina moves the scope to his back.

“Okay. I think you’re good.” She says at last. setting the scope away. “Any pain?”

“Only near my ribs.” He reaches up and touches a particularly tender spot to the right side of his sternum, just above his diaphragm. It had the same sore quality of a bruise. “I think it’s from the CPR, but it doesn’t feel broken, at least.” He pauses. “That probably means you didn’t do it right.”

“Well, sorry for not cracking your bones I guess,” She snaps, sounding entirely unsorry. “I’ll try harder next time, you asshole.”

It takes him a moment to remember his tongue in his mouth. “Excuse me?”

Instead of immediately responding, she tears open a small white square with her teeth, shaking out an alcoholic wipe, the smell of it sharp in his nose. In a quick, easy motion, she grabs one of his hands, pushing up the sleeve of his jacket, and wraps the damp cloth around his wrist, swiping it over the wound with a tight grip on his hand even as he jerks with pain, just barely biting back a hiss as his nerves scream with the burn of it. “You are an asshole. You do know that, right?”

And she releases him, tossing the wipe away. He examines the exposed wound, notes that the skin surrounding it looks redder than before - before she’s pinned his hand again, this time to squeeze a line of white over the red from a thin tube of ointment. Trying to pull free of her is futile, but at least this didn’t burn. “Did I do something to you?” He grits out, grimacing at the uncomfortable greasy feeling as she winds gauze and bandages around his arm.

“I mean. It’s what you didn’t do.” She replies, tone clipped and the least pleasant he’s ever heard it. She reaches for his other hand, and he jerks it away at the last moment.

“Enough circumventing. If you have something to say, just say it.” He retorts. The pain had helped clear his head at least, enough for him to finally feel angry. The sensation of fear and cold had given away, leaving nothing behind by the disgrace at how he had been treated, how he was being treated. As if he had done anything wrong. “Pointless pettiness and guessing games are for people who are too stupid to be clear about what they want.”

He jumps as she throws down the roll of bandages, pushing away from him with a huff. “God, you’re so-! You’re such a dick!” her voice is shrill and furious, and he tries not to flinch, immediately on guard. “I - we just saved your stupid life, and you’re being so stuck up about it - what’s your problem?!”

“I didn’t ask to be dragged around and tossed into a pool,” He snaps back immediately, almost in reflex. He flexes his hands, preparing to bolt if he has to. “I’m so sorry for inconveniencing you with my misfortune, I’ll do my best to drown faster next ti-”

He cuts off as the ointment tube bounces harmlessly off of his head, clattering onto the floor. “Can you cut that out?!” Asahina hisses. She’s standing now, looking down at him with what was probably a thunderously furious look, but it’s hard to tell with the light behind her. The bandages and disinfectant wipes fall from her lap and scatter to the floor. “Look, I get it, okay? I’m sorry that happened to you. I get that you’re having a hard time. But we’re not playing the misery olympics, so can you at least just say ‘thanks’ or not be a total asshole while we’re trying to help?”

She turns fully away as her outburst ends, walking off to stand in front of the counter, back facing him. He sits silently for a moment, stunned, and a little embarrassed, which in itself was somewhat novel. Not utterly humiliated for once, but - her words did have some logic in them, and he chews thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek for a moment. None of them were trained paramedics or professionals, or had any obligation for his life. Nor did he have anything to offer them that would justify their interest in his well-being.

“Well,” He manages after a moment. She has a point, and it would be…wrong, not to acknowledge that much. “I…suppose, yes. That is - I mean - thank you.”

Not the most eloquent he could have been, but he could blame that on the near-death experience. She still doesn’t turn towards him. “I should have - you have a point,” He continues on, clumsily. “It was an…oversight, on my part, not to recognize that. But in my defense, I was a little preoccupied. I’m not exactly used to needing to be rescued.” He smiles to himself, a little bitterly. “Would you believe me if I said I try not to make a habit of near-death experiences?”

She still doesn’t turn back to him, but her shoulders slump as she sighs, a universally recognizable sound of exhaustion. “...Yeah. Right. I…look, I’m sorry too. I’m - everyone - we’re all freaked out, I guess, and I…shouldn’t have freaked out on you, but I take it seriously when I’m trying to help someone, y’know? And I guess I’m just used to it when people have a habit of, like, basic courtesy and stuff.” When she turns back to him her face isn’t nearly half as shadowed. “It’s pretty obvious you got one of the shorter ends of the stick, and I’d be pretty mad if I were in your spot too. I just wish…”

“What? That I’d be nicer?”

“No, I’m pretty sure that’s impossible for you.” She leans down to pick up the scattered medical supplies. “I wish that we had all met differently. If we’d already known each other before this stupid game started, you could trust us more about your…thing, and we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

He could understand why she would wish such a thing. Unhealthy codependency with Sakura aside, he could only imagine how jarring the whole experience of witnessing your murdered peers would have on someone as casual as her. “Statistically speaking, most murders are committed by someone already known to the victim.” He says pointedly. “If we’d all known each other, it would’ve only delayed the inevitable.”

She does an impressively exaggerated eye roll. “I changed my mind. I do wish you’d stop acting like a pompous dick.” And she grabs his other arm, and before he can react he feels his raw nerves being doused in the cold burn of isopropyl, and this time he does yelp and try to retract his hand. But she holds it fast until she’s done, dressing it expertly, and the tightness of the bandaging is almost reassuring, the pressure stymieing the pain. “But, you’re welcome. I’m glad you didn’t die.”

Her voice softens as she says that, and he can tell it’s genuine. Somehow, that throws him off even more than her initial scolding, and he stays silent, wrapping one hand around the newly bandaged area, squeezing it slightly with a contemplative frown.

“I’m gonna do your ankle now. Lift your leg?”

He jerks his foot backwards quickly. “I’ll do it myself.”

__

Once his wounds are fully tended to, they have a brief, heated argument over what should be done next. Aoi wanted him to rest in the nurse’s office until they could get his key back from Fukawa, but he refused outright, on the basis of several points: one, given that the culprit had apparently attempted to kill two people despite Monokuma’s trials only requiring one, it was likely they were out of a rational scope of logic, and he would be safer with the others given that he was a surviving witness. Two, given that he was an important suspect, he should confer his information with the others as soon as possible while it was still fresh in his mind. And three, as long as Fukawa was unaccounted for, he didn’t want to be in any situation where he could potentially be left alone somewhere to be subsequently cornered by her.

He purposefully doesn’t address how Monokuma’s rules forbid killing after an initial body was discovered, or how Aoi could simply just stay with him as a sort of safeguard. But she doesn’t argue, only sighing as she accompanies him towards the third floor, matching his slow, limping pace.

He’s hardly ever been up here, he realizes, as they step into the hallway. He vaguely remembers traversing through here once, but it takes him a moment to place which room is where. As they turn the corner and spy Yamada outside the room at the end of the hall, pale and trembling and sitting next to the dark purple pile of Fukawa’s unconscious form, it still doesn’t click for him that they’re outside of the art room until they actually reach the entrance.

Inside is the dusty, chemical scent of paint, metal, and the earthier smells of clay and old stone. He shudders for a moment, wrinkling his nose. The walls are a riot of color, pictures and paintings plastered and entirely covering up whatever the wallpaper was, pottery and half-finished busts gathering sitting on the shelves.

Aoi gasps audibly. It takes him a moment to realize that the large blot of color on the floor was not from spilled paint, but rather, was the source of the metallic smell that he’d noticed earlier. And it was oozing slowly outwards from the slumped body of Mondo Owada.

He’s hardly recognizable at first, missing his black coat and pompadour. He seems to have noticeably lost weight, in the white button-down shirt that is rolled at the sleeves and stained at the collar with the blood that was streaming from his forehead. Hiro, Kyoko, Sakura and Makoto are kneeling on either side of him, pressing rags to the numerous wounds on his chest - but it was hopeless. His torso was dotted with multiple dark spots, blooming outwards on his shirt like flowers.

Under the din of Hiro’s panicked, anxious muttering, Kyoko’s calm and steady counting, and Sakura’s voice administrating curt instruction, Byakuya can make out Makoto’s voice, chanting a quiet, desperate mantra: “Please don’t die, please don’t die, please don’t die, please-”

And as draws nearer, he can hear a low, rattling gasp coming from the body in front of him. Still breathing, and still alive.

“What happened?!” He demands, hesitant to step any closer. Kyoko just shakes her head and continues to count the seconds, gloved hands pressing fistfuls of white against the gaping injuries, the pool of blood already staining her knees.

At the sound of his voice, Owada suddenly lurches, surging forward with a spew of blood down his front. Ogami hisses and grabs his shoulder, trying to force him back down; he resists with impressive strength, teetering all his weight on one elbow. Makoto flinches backwards for a moment, faltering.

Owada raises one trembling hand towards him. “A-Alter Ego,” He gasps, blood stark against his teeth, streaming down his chin. “Where - is it safe-?”

Byakuya’s hand flies to his pocket before remembering that his handbook wasn’t there. At the same moment, he wonders if the laptop was still in its locker in the bathhouse, and curses himself for not checking earlier.

He opens his mouth to answer, before glancing at Makoto. Staring back at him with wide eyes, hands still trembling as he continues applying pressure to Owada’s injuries, with a rag so bloodied it was completely soaked through.

“...Yes.” He lies instead. “It’s fine.”

Owada’s arm drops down to his side, the whole of him going limp in an instant, and Sakura has to react quickly to catch him before his head crashes against the floor. The white of his eyes flicker shut. He exhales, a long, quiet sigh.

And the whole of him falls utterly silent.

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