Despite you being tight-lipped about the whole affair, the whole school soon knows about the human bodies in the infirmary, wrapped up neatly in white body bags. Or once human, really. They aren't anything anymore.
Ieiri doesn't ask you to help with more autopsies. You're not sure if it's because the Curse creating the bodies has been exorcised, or if it's because she thinks that you can't handle seeing any more. Both options are equally likely, and while a small part of you is secretly relieved, a larger part of you can't help feeling as though you've been tossed aside. Discarded.
Useless.
If Maki notices your underlying vehemence during training, she doesn't comment on it. You're nowhere near Maki's level of physical prowess, but now, it feels like you're treading water rather than just drowning in it. You've actually been learning a lot from her with every sparring session, most especially never to let down your guard. She's lightning quick and swift to exploit any advantage.
"[ NAME ]." Maki fixes you with a critical gaze, turning in a slow circle as she surveys you. "You should probably think about bringing along some Cursed Tools during the exchange."
You're glad, at least, that your seniors and friends aren't walking on eggshells around you. The light banter and teasing you share helps to alleviate the dull ache making a home in your chest. You've also noticed some of the faculty aiming sympathetic looks at you when they think that you aren't looking. Every instance leaves you with a sour feeling festering in the pit of your stomach.
You haven't spoken a word to anyone, not since that day in the infirmary, lapsing into pensive silences and relying on gestures and body language to communicate. In a way, it feels as though you're a child again, trapped in your own mind and refusing to communicate with anyone. Inclining your head, you stare at her, a silent question written in your eyes.
"You're decent with close-ranged weapons, so let's go with that. Knives?" You nod. "Nice."
She draws something out of her jacket and tosses it at you. Fumbling about with shaky hands, you manage to catch it. It's a long thin dagger in a leather sheath.
"Want a thigh sheath for that?" Maki offers. "I've got tons."
Hm. You stare at your legs, considering.
A splutter distracts you. You spin around to find Inumaki inhaling a mouthful of water. His coughing racks his slight frame, and his cheeks are tinged pink. He presses a hand to his mouth, and seems completely incapable of looking you in the eye, despite the worried glance directed at him. Panda pounds Inumaki on the back, unable to muffle his own snickers.
Nod.
"Sure, just come by my room later."
More coughing from Inumaki.
Panda cackles.
You continue training as usual. You ease into thrusts, strokes, and parries under Maki's watchful eye. With a certain degree of focus, you find a rhythm in using your dagger and a gracefulness to your limbs you never thought to be possible. Your muscles are aching by the end of each session, but you stubbornly run laps around the field until curfew. The beating of your feet clears your mind.
You grow confident enough to advance to knife throwing, observing yourself in mirrors when you practice, aiming at various points in your surroundings and always checking your form. After a few disastrous attempts, it gets better – Megumi and Nobara, at least, aren't ducking for cover whenever you take to the field.
A few days later, Inumaki presses a brown gift bag into your hands, exploding with coloured tissues and ribbons. He's watching you – your wide-eyed gaze, your parted lips, the blush stealing across your cheeks. You can't read his expression; it's closed, guarded, maybe a little vulnerable and unsure. You feel itchy and hot, unused to your own skin.
Across the field, Panda hustles everyone else away.
You reach into the bag, pulling out a white hair tie of delicate gauze, and emblazoned with delicate butterflies, their wings a blending of soft blues and purples. A flock of butterflies riot in your stomach, stealing your breath.
A gift? His thoughtfulness softens the sharp angles of your face, worn down by grief and exhaustion.
"Thank you," You whisper. So inadequate a word for how you feel about him. He's steady and solid, and always seems to be there for you.
"Salmon."
Impulsively, you draw Inumaki into a hug. His warmth is welcome, chasing away the chill that had brought goose bumps to your skin. He doesn't say anything for a long while, just gives you the comfort of having him close. Or maybe he's taking comfort in you.
It's a comforting thought.
