Heaven is when Junko Enoshima doodles on her.
She sticks her tongue out, concentrating, and Mikan has the thought to giggle at the face: adorable, concentrated, as if something as meaningless as writing on Mikan means something. People have doodled on Mikan a lot, and none of them have ever looked as serious and focused as her; it warms Mikan all over how she treats it like it's a precious act—how she treats Mikan like a precious thing. Sometimes Mikan imagines she is very small, shrinking at the light, something to crush underfoot carelessly and toss as if garbage—but with Junko, that smallness feels okay; as if Junko could cup her in her hands, as if she is a beloved trinket she wants to handle with care. She wants that, a little bit; to feel Junko's hands caressing her completely, to be enveloped by her. Cupped in the palm of her hands and little. She thinks it would feel safe—a feeling she never quite known. But with the way Junko's brows furrow as she draws with a marker in her hands, she feels something close to it. She feels—treasured.
What Junko writes just enhances the feeling. Little stars, little hearts, little flowers. Little notes telling her that she is loved. She always gets a grin when she finished; face bright and proud, as if she just did something profound. ( Everything she does is profound.) She hates writing the same messages; she makes sure to never repeat them—except for one, where she writes that she is loved, every day, every time. You're beautiful , and I want to kiss you , and always, always I love you, written across her skin like whispered confessions. Tender, but not like ever before. For Mikan, relationships have always felt like a bruise: something to endure, something painful, a wound. But right here, it feels different; it feels like something healing, instead.
Every time she reads her words, her little notes, the occasional reminders ( don't forget to eat after your shift! And you have a book report due in a week! And your water bottle is almost empty, don't forget to fill it! ), she starts to believe them more and more—the words that she is loved.
Her favorite note is her name: written on her, practice cursive, in swirly ink— Junko Enoshima. The i's dotted with hearts—it feels like a mark. It feels like a promise. It feels as close as she comes to being cupped in her hands; it feels like she's hers.
(It feels, if she dares to hope, safe.)
Heaven is when she traces constellations with her as they lay on wet grass, the scent of a storm in the air, having just passed them by (a storm that Junko would scream into with her, shriek with laughter as she danced in the mud and let go of her umbrella to get stained by the skies tears, a storm in which she would take Mikan's hands and pull her along with a grin and sway with her, her smile as she remarks hushed and sweet like a secret that the sky is never clearer as after a storm); the way she never follows the astrology charts, despite having memorized them by heart—Heaven is her finger hovering in the air as she draws her new ones, completely new, and for Mikan Tsumiki alone; her eyes sparkling with the stars reflected in them, and she shines even more in the dark — a supernova herself; Heaven is her excitement, her passion, her voice tripping over itself as she makes up stories for each figure she traces in the sky—
And sometimes she looks as Mikan the same way as that sky; like Mikan, boring and plain Mikan, is as bright as any star, as her fingers ghost her skin and she traces the words she has written there—she looks at her like she's the galaxy , and Mikan looks back.
Heaven is the way she crushes oranges under her teeth like she's trying to obliterate them- crushing them, making them burst, trying to grind them not because she hates them, but because she loves them so much—and maybe because she hates them too, but love and hate aren't opposites, and Junko eats them like she adores each bite; like she's mad.
Her face scrunches up, mouth puckered and pinched, and her eyes close each time—she peels them, methodical and mechanical, and eats each slice whole (and sometimes Mikan images her eating her whole, taking just as much care and consideration to devour her); and she will share them with her, everytime, without Mikan even asking—feeding them to her, her fingers lingering on her lips—
Heaven is her laughter at Nagito falling down in an unlucky accident; and he may glare, he may puff up, but she knows that everyone, including him, must be entranced with her laugh even when cruelty motivates it—Heaven is her voice cutting, mocking, angry, as she cuts Hiyoko to size until she leaves in tears (like she made Mikan cry so many times before; her own personal avenger, her only protector, the only one who's cared )—Heaven is her hands on hers as she guides the scalpel like one would show their lover how to chop food; Heaven is the way her lips curl at their screams, red lipstick that leave stains all over her, as if she could kiss away their hate, as if to mark her—
And people think she's hell, but she's not. She's never been to Mikan. She's been like a dream; and every day before Mikan's life has been a nightmare. She's waking up. She's falling. She's being caught, every time—
This isn't despair; it's never been. For Mikan Tsumiki, it is only love.
Because Junko Enoshima is Heaven.
(And Mikan will plunge the world into hell for taking that away.)