Peko looks down at the nails.
They're pink, which… is somewhat expected. Pink, red, black, white, and cheetah print—those are Junko's absolute favorite colors to wear. (Junko would say that cheetah print is a pattern, not a color, but that's really just—semantics, at that point.) So, it's not… a surprise that she painted Peko's nails pink, not… really. Still, it's—girly, the kind of thing Peko never really wears. There's little… charms (or whatever they are; Peko, unlike Natsumi, has never been very big on fashion) on it, yellow and blue, flowers and sunny smiley faces staring up at her. Cute, sure, but in a way that's distinctly cutesy, in a way Peko just… isn't.
“So?” Junko is smiling. “What do you think?”
“It's… fine.” Peko glances back up at Junko, pressing her lips in vague thought. “Why… this, though?”
Junko pouts. The kind of pout that is half-performance; the kind of pout that you pout when you want someone to know you're pouting. Not a frown—much more juvenile than that, more playful than serious. Natsumi used to pout like this at her, but thinking about that is—painful. Best not.
“You don't like it?” She whines. “And here I made it just for you, my very best friend!”
Peko blushes, burning with mortification and—something else. She's not sure what else. A best friend is not something she's ever been called; to most people, she was simply a background character, and to the people she mattered to, she was a tool—something to use, and not much else.
Not that she—really thinks Junko isn't using her.
“It's fine,” Peko repeats. “I just want to know why you picked it.”
“Hm… Yeah, most would go with something more mature, huh?” Junko dropped the pouting, propping her hand on her hips and staring in a way that made Peko's ears flush. “After all, you're a serious, tough warrior, now aren't you? Most would go with something simple, something elegant, something classic. After all, a lot about you is serious and traditional; most would accentuate your beauty with something the same.”
“So why didn't you?”
“Simple.” Junko giggles. “Peko-chan, in my eyes, isn't that. She's adorable instead! I mean, Peko-chan, you love cute things, don't you? All things fluffy and small. Not to mention, you missed out on a lot of childhood things. I wanted to emulate a more juvenile look to show you want you missed out on.” She paused, another fluttering laugh. “And I wanted to mark you! Something unique, something that would stand out, something you'd look at and think odd in a way that made you always, always think of me. Is that such a crime, Peko-chan?”
“N…No?” Peko flushed hot, trying hard to tamp down the heat rising to her cheeks. Something to mark me. Something to claim? “But why?”
Junko laughs, once again. “Because I like you, Peko-chan. Don't you like me?”
A trick question. Tools don't like anything.
Junko clicked her tongue at her silence. “Peko-chan.” She says, all sharp impatience, tapping her foot with a frown. Not a pout; a proper frown. “I asked you a question.”
“...I like you.”
And suddenly, she was all beams again. Like looking at the sun. It burned her. “I knew you loved me! Peko-chan is the kuudere type, huh? But don't worry, Peko-chan! Your Junko understands you perfectly!” She clapped her hands, as if celebrating the fact. Celebrating Peko Pekoyama's existence. “You're so cute, you know? Absolutely delectable, I could eat you up!”
And she laughed. A beautiful, cackling laugh. Like the cling of swords against each other, elegant and chaotic and violent at once.
An artform, her laughter.
“We'll make a human out of you yet, Peko Pekoyama.”
It sounded more like a threat than a promise.
(She wonder if human was just another way Junko said hers—if, in truth, she would always be a tool; Junko simply wanted her to change masters.)
(It didn't matter. Peko was always made to be used, after all.)