Chapter Text
Munakata Kyousuke is looking down on him. On the first morning of Sakakura’s second year at Hope’s Peak Academy, there’s a new arrival, announcing his name and title. The Ultimate Student Council President; their class’s very own honorable Prime Minister. So above it all, addressing everyone with a blade-sharp gaze like they’re his personal Diet.
Sakakura didn’t need more of this crap: He’d been looked down on his whole life by dumbasses on the schoolyard, meatheads at the boxing gym and opponents in the ring. They were what drove him to fight in the first place. Through boxing, he learned how to channel his feelings of anger and insecurity into wins. Stupid guys can be tricked. Strong guys can be outmaneuvered. Opponents worth his time can still be knocked out with a combination of strategy, stamina and strength. He’s no longer the weak kid beneath everyone; he destroys any shred of doubt that he shouldn’t be messed with. He should be respected. Feared.
That knowledge should be enough to make him feel better, to cut down this so-called Ultimate Student Council President’s existence to something less than dust on his sneakers, but in a brief moment, Munakata’s eyes meet his. His heart seizes in his chest, threatening to implode from the pressure. He finally gets how his opponents feel; that stomach dropping split-second of “oh shit ,” just before his fist connects with their faces. The guy before him is an iron wall: There are no openings, no vulnerabilities and no buttons to push. Munakata Kyousuke is looking down on him, and for the first time in Sakakura Juuzo’s life, he’s afraid that this guy has the right to do so.
It pisses him off. He’s not alone, naturally. A few other guys grumble and mutter crap under their breaths and even more react to the sound of excited whispers and squeals from the girls. It makes his knuckles itch for that satisfying feeling of perfect impact he can’t relieve when they’re stuck in a classroom. He’s not jealous- he doesn’t want to be him; he just wants to beat him.
It’s the only way to make this feeling stop.
A minute into their Free Period, their teacher is called to the Headmaster’s Office. The man hesitates, giving the class a stern look as he makes a futile request: “Please continue studying quietly.”
Yeah, right.
As soon as his footsteps fade down the hall, Sakakura makes his move. Munakata is completely open, eyes fixed on his textbook. It’s almost too easy to just grab him by the collar. An open invitation. Is he being baited? While there’s a strong chance that’s true, he doesn’t have the patience to wait anymore.
Munakata is faster than he thought. He evades his grasp, pulling a wooden sword out of nowhere. Not bad. The air whistles around the weapon as it’s swung at him, but the initial surprise isn’t enough to stall his attack. He dodges once, twice, and closes in. Everything seems to move in slow motion as he watches Munakata bring a hand up to guard his face. The shifting of bone and ligaments, the tensing of muscles, all moving together in a worthless attempt to protect himself.
This stoic pretty boy doesn't have a fucking prayer.
He launches his fist at Munakata’s face and a heavy CRACK! resounds. Splinters and bristles go flying everywhere and the whole damn class erupts in screams. Both of them are forced to jump back, shielding their eyes. When the debris settles, a girl is standing there, wielding whatever’s left of a broom.
“Kirigiri-sensei asked us to study quietly, so please return to your seats." Despite her motherly expression and tone, the broom handle cracking beneath her grip brings to mind body parts of a similar shape that could be crushed just as easily. The will to fight drains from his body, replaced by survival instincts. He looks over at Munakata, whose eyes shift between the sword now embedded in the wall and their nosy classmate. He never expects to be on the same wavelength as Munakata, but there’s a quiet rush of relief when the other guy raises a hand to her in surrender.
“Yukizome-san, please put the broom down; I’ll stop now.” He offers, giving her a cautious look, “If Sakakura-kun has any further business with me, we’ll continue on our own time.”
Her lips purse, dropping into a firm pout as she glares at both of them, half-expecting both them to jump right back into it. Maybe it’s his imagination, but she looks eager to get in on the action herself. Munakata looks at him, silently asking, almost begging him to at least give some verbal assurance to her.
“Yeah. After school. . . or something. . .” He grits his teeth at how awkward the lie sounds, but tries not to make it obvious. He shoots Munakata a glance back, searching for some positive reaction. For approval. There. Are you happy now?
There’s a nod. “With that settled, I’m aware many of our classmates weren’t happy with me after my introduction. . .”
So he noticed. Well, he’d be a pretty crappy Student Council President if he couldn’t see something that obvious.
“. . . but a blanket apology is an insincere solution. Instead, I’ll focus on being someone all of you can put your confidence in. I want to be someone the class can trust. Especially you, Sakakura-kun.”
The combo of Munakata’s cold tone and distant expression is nothing like the politicians on tv, spouting bullshit with a plastic smile on their face. As much as Sakakura wants to believe his words are a lie, even he can tell how dead serious he is. This kind of honesty isn’t what he expects from honor student types who get ahead by working the angles. If anything, Munakata carries himself like a fighter. If this were a real bout, maybe he’d think about shaking this guy’s hand and moving on. Except those fights aren’t personal: His problem with Munakata is.
Or he’d like to think it is. So it should be easy to reject Munakata’s offer, but for some stupid reason (aside from the girl who looks ready to break his dick), he doesn’t have it in him anymore. Of all the times to lose steam: the whole damn class has their eyes on them, watching their every move. Waiting for his response. His face burns; his chest gets tight all over again. Even if he can’t make himself hate this guy, he doesn’t want him to win either. He doesn’t want his classmates to think that he’s soft.
There’s only one way to protect his reputation.
This time, no one can stop him.
This time, he doesn't miss.
Munakata collapses and the classroom explodes in a mix of screams and cheers, but before he can drink it in or try to dodge their teacher’s return, everything goes black.
The alternating piercing stings and violent throbs at the back of his skull wrench him from unconsciousness. He’s not exactly sure how he got in the infirmary, but through the half-drawn curtains, he sees Munakata sitting on the next bed over, with an ice pack pressed to his right eye.
When Munakata notices he’s awake, he greets him stiff-lipped, with only the corners of his mouth quirking upward in something like a smile. He says, “You’re awake,” but it feels like he meant to say, You're alive.
“What time is it?”
He doesn't expect an answer, but Munakata responds anyway: “Almost lunch.”
“--Oh, speaking of which--” That girl’s voice chimes in, and it takes everything Sakakura has to keep from freezing up on reflex. Even when both of them try to hide it, she picks up on their reactions. Her cheeks puff up and she sulks, offended, “Geez, what’s with you guys? I even took the trouble of bringing food. . .”
To prove her point, a tiered lunch box is set next to Munakata and she begins unwrapping it. Before he can even ask how she has all that food, she adds, “I’m used to cooking for a lot of people and share with the class whenever I can.”
Her instincts must be really good, because he’s pretty sure his thoughts aren’t written all over his face.
“Here, eat up!” One tray of the box is shoved at his chest, with a napkin and chopsticks quick to follow. Fluffy, thick lemon yellow pieces of rolled omelette are nestled next to a speckled mound of rice with a happy face made of seaweed and ham. Juicy red cherry tomatoes top a crisp pile of lettuce with thin spirals of carrot strips. There’s bite-sized pieces of fried chicken too, coated with a light shell of crispy batter with the mouthwatering scent of the garlic, ginger, sake and soy sauce the meat was marinated in. He’d almost call it healthy, if it weren’t for the pair of sugar-sprinkled butter cookies in the corner of the tray.
He has to admit it’s better-looking than anything he could grab at a convenience store, but isn’t the shift from attacker to caterer too extreme? Unsure of what else to do, he looks to Munakata again, who’s already got a piece of omelette in his mouth. Most likely, she hasn’t done anything weird to the food. The guy hasn’t keeled over yet and the girl’s eating her own cooking, but he still has his doubts. Sensing that, she stares at him and his untouched tray.
“. . . What do you want, Yukizome?”
“Ah-- You finally said it!” Before he can pull back, she’s too damn close, eyes sparkling like she’s gonna cry.
“Said what?”
“My name.” she points at him for emphasis with a grin: “You know, we spent a whole year in the same class and you’ve never said a word to me.”
That doesn’t come as a surprise to him; he wasn’t going to waste any time doing more than what’s needed to get teachers off his ass. More importantly, socializing with the class would ruin the image he’s scraped together for himself. He’d rather be alone than lose that. He doesn’t need friends, especially not a girl that’d make him look whipped.
If it weren’t for his better-than-everyone attitude, Munakata might be someone he could tolerate. He’s a half-decent fighter and an honest person. Maybe he’d be useful for keeping Yukizome on a short leash too. He can’t expect much now; punching someone in the face is usually a real fast way to burn a bridge. He still can’t tell if he’s angry about it or not. When he finishes eating, he rests his chopsticks on the corner of the tray and looks at him:
“Sakakura-kun, I understand that I put you on the spot, and that’s why you hit me. Since it’s my fault, I won’t complain to the teacher or Headmaster about it. In all likelihood, because of your talent, they’d regard what you’ve done as ‘practice,’ anyway. But, just for personal reference, I’d like to know why you confronted me in the first place.”
There’s no way he can answer that, not without sounding like a loser. He stays quiet, which he takes as a hint to guess out loud: “I know that the talent that got me here isn’t like a lot of the others: The student council president should be an elected position. By coming here with that title, I’ve bypassed the standard process. I wouldn’t disagree with anyone who’d say that I didn’t earn it.”
That earns a snort. The only time he gives a damn about what the rest of the student body thinks is when it involves their opinion of him. He didn’t even bother paying attention to anything the Student Council did last year. And even if he doesn’t like the guy, he knows better than to think he doesn’t deserve to be here. Hope’s Peak Academy has a reputation for scouting the best talent in the country, so Munakata couldn’t have been some random choice. It’s not like anyone could talk or bribe their way in if they wanted to.
“. . . No matter what my grades are like, or how I conduct myself, the support of the student body remains key to my success.” Munakata’s words are definitive, set-in-stone fact, which makes how wrong he is even more irritating. It pisses him off that someone presumably smart can overlook an obvious answer for something so over-complicated. He doesn’t want to hear any more of this, but he doesn’t want to explain himself either. For once, it’d be nice to be understood without having to deal with the embarrassment of saying how he feels out loud, but it’s easier to rely on old tactics.
He cuts him off with a growl, “If you don’t shut up, I’ll punch you in the other eye--”
“What I think Sakakura-kun means is that you’re far off the mark. Isn’t that right?” Before Munakata can even get on guard, Yukizome is defusing the situation: The smile on her face is confident, like she already knows the answer: “So? What’s your reason? I brought both of you to the infirmary and cleared everyone else out so you guys could talk without getting bothered.”
He doesn’t want to know how she managed to get two unconscious guys to the infirmary by herself. She’s already intimidating enough, even as she tries to make him feel comfortable. He'd almost prefer being threatened by her again instead of having her think he needs to be babied like this, but he's too tired to fight anymore. He breaks eye contact, grabbing his chopsticks to stab at the rice in the tray a little. “When you introduced yourself this morning, It was like you were looking down on me. . . .It pissed me off a little.”
Yukizome listens with a soft noise to acknowledge what she suspected he’d say. He expects Munakata to question him, or make fun of the way he felt. The dead air in the room makes him uneasy, but when he finally looks at him, he’s frowning a little, cupping his chin with his free hand. He's taking what's been said seriously, as if he'd gotten a formal complaint.
“I see. I’ve been told I have that kind of face before, but I wasn’t sure if it was true or not.”
While Yukizome laughs, he fires back before he can stop himself: “Have you looked in a mirror? You do.”
“You totally do," she adds, "Although it's not a bad thing.”
“Should I try to smile more?”
“Not if it’ll look anything like what I saw when I woke up. Quit doubting yourself and do what you want.” As he answers, he feels comfortable enough to pick up a piece of chicken and stuff it in his mouth.
Yukizome wastes no time in asking: "So? How is it?"
Considering everything that's led up to this moment; the confrontation, getting ambushed and having to look like a fool while admitting to what got them here in the first place, he's surprised by his own answer: "...Not bad."
If this is what having friends is like, then maybe he won't mind it too much.