Archive of Our Own

There was once a happy traveler that ventures the world wide-eyed and hopeful for a legendary conquest to witness all that the world has to offer his two hands. Then one day, a friendly owl drops a letter to him, forlorn written in the flaps of its wings.

The traveler’s father is facing a predicament of life and death. The words on the parchment sinks the traveler’s stomach to his knees. He wails yet his eyes that shone like the gems under precious sunlight beams with hope.

So the traveler sets off on another adventure. They trudge the roads and the hills and the mountains and the rivers and then enter the woods. And his quest begins: to search for a cure from folklore, from the legends, the tales. He battles bears and witches and ogres and friendly deceitful foes.

He walks and walks and runs and runs the woods. Day by day, the woods become familiar. Days turn to weeks and weeks into months. The lost traveler traverses the woods that he now calls his home. Trees keep him stuck in a dark and dangerous cage.

One day, as hope slips through his fingers, light shines from before him. Intrigue, he follows the light and finds a grinning bartender with an outstretched hand. Smiling back, he takes it and he soon finds himself out of the scary forest.

But in the forest, a bear lurks and prowls. A red gem gleams from within the forest, casting a reflective light on the boys. The traveler is out of the forest and, with the cheery bartender, they promenade into a rundown but lived-in village. Unbeknownst to them, there are creatures that dwell in the shadows.

Rantarō stares out the window, his dyed brown hair visible at the edges of his eyesight. The afternoon sunlight casts a yellow glow on the pavements and the passersby, giving the illusion of comfort with its aureate warmth.

He can see the people going on about their day, faces twisted in a grimace as they wipe away sweat from their foreheads, hands waving to fan themselves while the other holds an umbrella to shield them from the blazing rays. 

His lips wrap around the cool metal straw, the coffee taste adulterated by the melting ice. Nonetheless, he drinks it empty without a second thought to its growing blandness.

Now empty, he sets it down with the other plastic cups, slightly colored water resting at the bottom of each, rings from the moisture of the cold cups steadily growing into a small puddle under them. 

He stands up to order another of the same drink, meeting the same person with the androgynous face and the gender-neutral voice that works the register most of the time. “Creamy macha latte, twelve ounces?” they ask, a bit amused as their cheek is leaned on their palm.

He nods with a thin smile, receiving a nod from the barista in response. He sits back down, water from the puddle dribbling down the edge of the table. A flash of neon pink appears and he snaps his neck towards the source, high-strung.

The tension in his shoulders evaporates as his eyes land on an innocent pink skirt that looks too bright when the sun hits. He forces his leg to still and his fingers to stop fidgeting.

He inhales deeply, rolling the cylindrical pendant between his fingers. Giggling reached his ears, faint yet deranged all the same. He burns the empty cups with his stare.

The laughter grows closer and he looks to his side, expecting something else other than a chortling child skipping down the streets with an older man in tow.

Following silently yet fondly, the man humors the child yet remains vigilant to keep his daughter safe. He smiles, wrinkles surrounding his eyes, and lowers the child’s cap in a hopeful attempt to stave away the heat.

He doesn’t drive his gaze away. Observing the interaction as the ache in his chest throbs more and more notably. His leg bounces again, shaking the table marginally. The child holds her dad’s hand.

Someone sighs next to him, startling him. “Annoying, right? I swear, it didn’t use to be this hot,” the familiar barista says amicably. “Anyways, here’s your fifth cup of a twelve ounce.”

“Thank you.” Did he not notice the buzzer? The sun moved in a way that put the barista directly in sight of the rays, their pale skin almost glowing, their violescent eyes bright under the incandescent light.

He squints, blinded by the scintillating halo that surrounded the barista.

“Mind if I ask for your name?” they inquire. They look puzzled. He bristles.

“Uh, no, it’s…Aoyama Ren.”

They nod slowly. “Aoyama Ren, huh. Well, it’s nice to know one of our regular’s names. Well, savor that drink, it’s your last one.”

“Isn’t that my choice…?”

“Probably but as someone who works here, I have the authority to cut you off before you die by caffeine overdose.”

“That’s…exaggerated.”

They raise a thin eyebrow. “Is it now?”

He thinks back to their earlier words, fifth cup. Ah…does he really drink that much? He averts his gaze, painfully ignoring the smug smirk that the barista wears on their doll-like face.

He doesn’t notice the way his mouth never lets go of the straw—slurping air at this point—too busy trying to not look back at the barista that burns holes at his back. As it was, he sees the reflection of the barista’s bemused expression on the window.

They cock their head to the side and their eyes narrow further. Rantarō feels his anxiety rising. Why were they looking at him so intently? He downs his drink and the cup crumples a little where his hand was.

Water splashes a little when he settles the cup down a little too hard. The barista is still looking. What is their problem? Rantarō curses in his head. Dread swirled in his gut and he stood up too quickly to be anything but hurried and anxious.

The barista was typing at their phone. Rantarō’s eyes widen and paranoia controls his feet. He practically dashes out and he catches the barista’s eye again, even more confusion in their expression. 

Here’s the thing: Kokichi might throw a lie here and there and play things off as a joke now and then, but he speaks with genuine honesty when he says that he doesn’t know what he did that would cause their brooding hot regular’s out-of-character disappearance. Which isn’t to say that he knows much about said regular’s character.

But when someone builds a routine for half a year, it’s noticeable when something doesn’t follow that consistency. Sue him for weaving theories about the man and his disappearance. Again, all he did was ask for a name and talk about the climate. Nothing to warrant such a reaction. So, he’ll remain adamant about his innocence.

“Ya really scared that guy away, rat,” his usually boisterous co-worker muttered absent-mindedly beside him. She blew away her bangs and kept chewing her gum with her elbow resting on the pristine counter.

He sighs and denies the accusation, just as bored as she is, and copies her pose. “I didn’t even do anything worth running away from.”

She snorts. “Yeah right. Ya annoyed him to death, I bet ya.”

He grins. “How much are we betting?”

She flips him off. “Nah, really, what did ya do?”

He blew her a raspberry. “Pussy. And I told you: nothing. All I did was talk about the climate and ask for a name. Is that a crime now?”

“As if that’ll stop ya.” He throws her a peace sign with a grin. She rolls her eyes. “He probably got creeped out by your face.”

“I’d think so too if I had your sucky face.”

“Your face looks like a ballsack.”

“You wish you’re looking at a ballsack, horndog.”

“I’d rather be a celibate than look at your ballsack.”

“Everyone would take a vow of chastity and then castrate themselves before showing you their ballsack.”

“Ya wouldn’t even know what a dick looks like even if you search for it.”

“You two are disgusting,” someone sighed behind them.

“Tell her that,” he pointed a finger at the witch flipping him off and then looked at their exasperated crossed-arm co-worker.

“I bet he found your face disgusting,” said witch replied.

“‘He’?”

“The brooding regular,” he clarified.

“Ah, he hasn’t stopped by yet?”

“Nah. Not since this brat spoke to him.”

“Maybe he’s dead.” The blank expression on her face as she said that before returning to the back made it all the more morbid.

Kokichi turned to his pink-haired co-worked who shuddered and turned back to the approaching customer. He stiffled a laugh at her reaction but, deep down, it unnerved him a bit too. He sighs then brews the ordered drink with autopiloted movements, head preoccupied with thoughts of their brooding regular.

There was a familiar itch in his mind, the one that holds information to him but at a distance that it was blurry and unclear to him. Something was familiar about that guy, and ever since that inkling visited him months prior, he was restless. He just couldn’t tap on that information and make it clear to him just why they looked so familiar.

It bugged him too much and he throws the towel he was drying his hands with on the counter, a little too much emotion placed behind his movements. Whoops.

“Aoyama-chan,” the familiar barista greets, looking a little surprised. “You’re back. Everything okay?”

He tries to relax his shoulders. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s good.” It sounded like reassurance to him, mostly.

“O..kay. The ushe?”

“Uh..yeah, thanks.” They nod and Rantarō takes his usual spot by the window, wiping sweat off his forehead with his handkerchief. As per usual, the aromatic scent of coffee and pastries filled the air. He quite missed this.

The cool breeze of the air conditioner is a refreshing change from the unkind heat, allowing people to take a breather and feel cozy. The buzzer vibrates and blinks red, indicating his order is ready.

“Try to lessen it today, yeah?”

“Yeah sure.” The cold drink reddens his palm as he takes it in his hands. Usually, he’d people-watch yet he found himself watching a certain reflection in the window today.

They type on their phone and he isn’t sure if that’s allowed during work hours. Over the screen, they lock eyes and coerce Rantarō to turn away first, losing the unofficial contest.

He pursed his lips and peered up at the barista with his head still bowed, sipping absentmindedly on his quickly disappearing beverage. They moved deftly, expert motions telling of their experience.

He stared, not finding it in him to move his gaze before he, inevitably, got caught. This time around, he gives up before their silly game starts again and tries to look elsewhere. It darts everywhere, his eyes trying to find something even diminutively interesting.

Consequently, he accidentally peers on someone’s laptop screen. He stills. The straw falls out from his parted lips. Mazarine-hued hair juts out just enough over the man’s shoulder for him to catch and recognize.

The scene is familiar. Unforgettable. No matter how much he wishes he can forget every single thing that plays out on screen. Maybe he should look away, he knows that’s better for him. And yet, here he is; watching.

His mind screams for him to look away and desperately tries to but his mind lies to him too, because he doesn’t look away. No, his eyes stay rooted on the screen, watching the video play out and predicting every move.

More familiar with it than a movie he watched a thousand times over. But this was his life, so that makes sense. It was like a match was finally lit after scratching it on a surface several times. His hazy memories clear like newly-cleaned glass.

Transfixed, he watches the trial progress. Despite the man wearing earbuds, he can vividly hear the words they speak and the background chuckling of a certain bear. Vaguely, he tastes iron and his jaw aches and his teeth grind and tears prick hotly at the edges of his eyes.

It reels him in, has him pulling himself closer to the edge of his seat. He can hear the yelling and the shouting, can almost hear the intense music over the static in his ears, over the pounding of his heart.

Almost there. He can feel it. Suspense thrums beneath his goosebumps-riddled skin. Pulsating beats knock rapidly against his rib cage, his nerves fried from the tension of it all.

Almost. Tears roll down his right eye, thin trails of water down his cheek, to his neck, and drips to the puddle of condensation on the table. The perpetrator was caught. And muted as the scene was, he can hear the cries and last words.

So distinct as if each syllable was being fed right to his eardrums. Their wails and sobs hammer his ears until all he can hear is the dolor. His right eye cries with them. Nausea rolls around in his stomach, lurking and waiting. Fire reflects in his eyes.

Almost. He hears their scream and feels the way everyone stops breathing. Waiting until the screaming stops and silence drowns them. Only a few more seconds. And then—glowing porphyrous eyes fills his view.

He blinks. 

They grin, losing the cruel fascinated sparkle in their eyes. “Sup, Aoyama-chan~”

Rantarō blinks again, the abruptness confounds him. He tilts his head, hoping to catch a glimpse of what happens next despite knowing that it’ll leave him in dysania the following morning. They tilt their head, too, blocking his view again.

He blinks and looks at them, confused. They smile and raise an eyebrow. “You haven’t finished your drink yet? Wow, I’m proud of you.”

It was a playful retort. He blinks again, composing himself despite the way his nerves fray and the tension is unreleased, leaving them to settle in the gaps of his joints. His leg starts up again. He breaths. “Yeah, taking your oh-so-wise advice.”

“Good, you should. I give out fantastic advice, seriously.”

“Don’t you have a job to attend to?”

“Eh.” They placed both elbows on the table, resting their cheeks on their palms. “Not like I have any customers to attend to. I’d much rather talk to you than stare out the door, yanno?”

“Oh? I’m not that interesting.”

They snorted and their eyes darken. Rantarō can feel a shift in the air. He almost waits for an ominous thunder to roar. “You’re probably the least boring person here.”

“Yeah?” He fights the urge to straighten his spine. “That’s flattering.”

They grin and the atmosphere loosens. “You should be! That’s probably the highest compliment I dish out.”

“Oh really? Thank you, then. What made me so interesting?”

They shrug. “That’s a secret,” he mimes a shushing gesture and throws in a wink.

Oh, Rantarō smiles wider, that is fascinating. Makes him want to pick up his psychology book. There’s something about them that oozes out an energy that says they know more than they should. His leg bounces. "Scandalous.”

The smirk he receives shines of approval. He feels oddly pleased at that. “So,” they began, “entertain me. You have nothing better to do than look emo.”

"You’re demanding,” he admonishes teasingly. “I’m not emo.”

They grinned. “What do you do?”

“I go to a café every day and sit by the window, living my anime protagonist life.”

“Woah, really?” Their eyes widened in surprise. “That’s funny. I work at a café and there’s this one guy that always sits by the window looking like a shōnen main character.”

“Really, that is funny. Who knew we had so much in common?”

“Certainly not me.”

“What do you think I do?”

A noncommittal shrug. “Acting, maybe. Reality TV?”

His right eye twitches and he feels the dried tear track. “I’ll take that as a compliment. How about you? Aside from being a barista, you do anything else?”

They leaned back on their chair, resting their elbow on their other arm as they fiddled the string of their tattered hoodie. He watches as a tendril of hair bounces out of their hair tie and sways but doesn’t stay down, an ahoge. “I’m a student.”

“College?”

“College.”

They grabbed Rantarō’s lukewarm and tasteless drink, wrapping their lips on the sugarcane straw and taking a sip of it. “That’s my drink…” he protests futilely, mostly for show.

“It’s a drink,” they rebutted, “you weren’t drinking it anyways. Now the flavor’s all gone. After I worked so hard on it,” they sighed mournfully.

He rolled his eyes. “As if. The machines do most of the work.”

They pout.

He wants to ask why they’re really here. “Don’t you have work to get back to?” he blurts instead.

They look over their shoulder and then back to him. “No customers, no work.”

“Riiight. And you have nothing else to do?”

“Nope.”

“So you decided to bother me instead.”

They pout, looking genuinely hurt. “Am I bothering you?”

Rantarо̄ would feel guilty but there was a touch of insincerity that he caught. So he just snorts. “I thought that was the intention.”

“And here I thought I was doing you a favor by gracing you with my presence.”

“I feel honored,” he says without a hint of sarcasm, playing along.

The person behind them stood up, taking Rantarō’s attention. The barista notices his shift in attention immediately and waits a bit before looking over their shoulder, still sipping mindlessly on Rantarō’s order.

“Hey!” someone calls out. They both shifted their gaze at the woman. The woman took their slightly-greasy pink hair down, shook their locks out, and ran their fingers through it to flip it over.

His companion raises a single eyebrow in response, although the other barista stops looking at them. “Take your apron off if you’re gonna clock out already.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” they groan and stand up, already working on taking the stained brown apron off. They turn on their heels, looking at him while walking backwards, “you gonna be here tomorrow?”

“Sure. I need my creamy macha latte.”

They scoff and turn their back to him, disappearing inside the backroom. He decides to leave first, hearing someone whistle and get slapped as he opens the door.

That scene plagues Kokichi’s mind quite a bit. He replays it over and over again like an obsession, frantic addiction to dissect it piece by piece. The video playing on his screen loads. What is he doing? Binging this show when he has other priorities at hand. He closes the tab, the fiery scene still fresh in his mind. Horrific, indeed.

But…he replays the moment in his head and takes it in again. The unnatural stillness of a usually frenzied leg, the distant but grounded look that can only be achieved through immersion, and the horror hiding behind brown eyes. The horror that holds something to it…something personal. Is Aoyama-kun is the type to be disturb easily?

Something dark takes his attention and he looks to the side, a little surprised when he saw his seatmate leaning closer to him by the second. He blinks and slightly shifts his phone screen to accomodate the man. Ever-observant, the movement didn’t go unnoticed to his timid friend. The dark-haired man places the original distance between them again and rubs his nape awkwardly, he was slouched over himself with his arms on the desk.

“S-sorry,” they squeaked out.

He shrugs and makes it easier for the man to watch if he wants to or not. “It’s cool. You a fan?”

“Uhm...I guess. I didn’t take you for a Danganronpa fan.”

He pouts and furrows his brows. “Of course I am! I watch it everyday, too! You don’t even pay attention to me. How could you just assume things about me?”

“No! That’s not what I—I just mean…uhm, well, you know, you never seemed interested, so I just—I’m sorry!”

How could Kokichi not take mercy on the poor guy? “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Sorry, you’re just so fun to tease.”

They deflated. “Ah…of course.” They sighed and brushed it off, all too used to his antics after four consecutive years of ending up in the same class.

He giggles.

“Ōma-kun, do you really watch Danganronpa everyday?”

“Is that so surprising?”

“Well…no. It’s just, you never seemed to be interested in Danganronpa.”

“Because I’m not.”

“But you just said you do.”

“I lied,” he giggled.

Their shoulders sag like a tired parent who has to deal with their child’s shenanigans too often. He just grins wider, amused. “So, you’re not interested in DR?”

“Nah, not really. I mean, I guess the story isn’t that bad. But with fifty-two seasons and counting, it starts to become bland, yanno. Plus, I kind of completely lost interest because of other stuff. What about you?”

“Oh…I’m more interested in the mystery, really.” They fiddled with the cap on their head. “Why did you lose interest?”

It was an obvious attempt for conversation which most likely stems from the desire to try to keep a conversation alive but there was a bit of actual interest. Knowing how unsociable his classmate was, Kokichi opted to keep the conversation going.

“Oh, well, it’s partly because of how toxic a part of the fanbase could be and also because of all the shady stuff going on behind-the-scenes.”

“Ahh, yeah, the fandom can be really toxic.”

“Say, do you think the rumors about Team DR is true?”

“The one about the production of DR?”

“Right again! Yep, that one.”

They pressed their folded index finger to their chin and pouted slightly. “It’s possible… There’s too many claims that match each other's story but gives enough additional details for it to not be copied-and-pasted.”

“Mhm. There’s also the fact that all anonymous posts claim to be a participants or member of Team Danganronpa. There’s also the fact that some participants completely vanishes from social media, without a single sighting or hint that they’re even alive, still.”

They nod. “Although, it’s possible that those two events aren’t correlated. Maybe those participants just prefer not to be in the spotlight.”

“But don’t you find it weird? That it seems like not a single participant after, around thirty seasons, is basking in fame?”

They look at him, crease between their brows. He smiles, gotcha. “Think about it. It’d be fine if only a handful is private about it, but even stars like those still appear online and talk positively about their films and series.

But Danganronpa stars…they look like they want to do anything else but talk about Danganronpa. And after all the PR showings that we know is just mandatory for a marketing a new film, they just up and poof, disappears. They barely even talk about it at all.

Hell, some doesn’t even have a social media account.”

“How would you know that…?”

He shrugs. “I don’t. But you know how fans can get.”

“Ah,” they don’t seem surprised, and who would be? It’s not a well-known secret that fans have become more obsessive with each passing year, outside and inside the Danganronpa fandom.

“I mean, no matter how you look at it, you have to understand that something shady is going on, even if it’s a minor deal.”

“Maybe you’re just reading into it.”

“Maybe I’m not.” They bite their lip. He leans too farward. “You agree, don’t you?”

“I…” They lean backwards to save their personal space. “Well…there’s no conclusive evidence of anything.”

“Well, duh!” He rolls his eyes and leans back. “What kind of stupid organization would make it so obvious to the public?”

“What do you think is going on?”

Good question. He sighs. “I don’t know. With an organization as big as Team DR, it’d be hard to pinpoint it to one single crime. It could be contract breaches, employee misclassification, employment law violations, workplace harassment. Really! There’s so many laws they could break and get away with.”

“Hmm, that is true.”

“Right?”

Silence overtook them before Kokichi opened his mouth and spoke quietly. “What’re you thinking about?”

“Me? Oh, uhm, nothing important.”

“So you wouldn’t mind telling me, right, right?”

“Eh…it’s just…” They look away and pull their cap down, further covering their boyish features. “I always had a bad feeling about those anonymous posts.”

He raised an eyebrow to encourage them to talk more.

“It’s nothing, really.” They shook their head in dismissal. “I just get a bad feeling whenever I stumble upon those posts.”

“Nishishishi, maybe you have detective instincts already.”

They smile shyly. “Oh, but if you’re not interested in Danganronpa, why were you watching?”

“Just seeing what the hype’s all about,” he shrugs, adding a bored yet curious cadence to his voice. “…And getting to know someone.”

Their eyes widen a bit before relaxing again. “You like someone, Ōma-kun?”

He blinks and tilts his head before chuckling. “I just find them interesting.”

They nod.

"Welcome," an unfamiliar barista greets him this time, voice dull as they tie their hair back with a red scrunchie, "what can I get you?"

"Creamy macha latte, twelve ounces."

"Coming right up,” they replied, looking unenthused.

He smiled thinly, silently wondering about his new friend’s whereabouts. He drums his fingernails on the marble countertop, slightly feeling an ache by his nail beds with every tap.

"Creamy macha latte."

He grasped the plastic up in his hands, the cold temperature of the beverage cooling his hands. "Excuse me," he called out. "I was wondering where the other barista is.."

They look at him dully, processing his inquiry. “Which one?”

Right, stupid. “Short with purple eyes.”

"Ōma has afternoon classes. He had a morning shift today."

Right, Ōma (finally, a name) is in college, isn’t he? Ōma did mention that. Is it new semester season? "Do you know when his shift is tomorrow?"

“You’re the brooding loner regular, right?” Realization sculpts their features. "He’ll have a mid-day shift tomorrow, I think, so he should be here around the usual time."

Rantarō blinks and his polite smile strains with awkwardness as he processed the first sentence. Heh…? “Ah,” he chuckles good-naturedly, “cool, thanks.”

Brooding loner, that’s what they call him. There’s no one to blame but himself for his predicament…he might as well weep at the center of the establishment. With a sigh, he decides to break his routine a little and steps out of the café. The first sip took him aback with a burst of flavor as opposed to the water-downed taste he had gotten desensitized to. He puckers his lips and decides to savor it this time.

Maybe standing in front of the café like a mascot wasn’t much better than looking like a brooding loner, it was arguably worst, actually. He hopes no employee was judging him right now. He made the precipitous act of hailing a cab with no direction in mind and blurted out the first location that popped in his head. Not where he wanted to go.

He banged his head on the tinted window with a grimace, dejectedly opting to watch the moving scenery with mild disinterest. His leg started bouncing and he allowed his brain to wander. At times, ge snaps out of his spiralling haze and mulls over what to think about to entertain him next. Eventually, they arrive at the hospital and he taps his phone on the machine for the payment.

His pockets his trembling hands as he crosses the reflective tiles. He tastes the metallic tang in the air and he hears the squeaky noises of a cart wheel being pulled around, occasionally making a clang sound as it stumbles upon an uneven tile. It reminds him of another place.

He exhales shakily as he spots his father from the circular frame of the entrance. A flash of apprehension creased his eyebrows. Nonetheless, he entered the pod, and the switchable glass slid close behind him.

The glass turns opaque upon demand and gives them privacy. The monitors beeps continuously, the only sound against the quietude. He licks the blood away from his bitten and bruised lips.

"Hey dad," there was a quiver in the inflection of his voice. “How’re you? It must’ve been lonely here, all by yourself.”

The oxygen masks fogs up with breath.

“When you wake up, we should go to Morocco or Jordan. Oooh!” He snapped his fingers. "What about Bolivia?”

. . .

He hums. “You know we should try sandboarding, we never got around to doing that. And maybe we can try balut from the Philippines. You really do not like that idea,” he chuckles. But he also shudders at the thought of eating fertilized duck eggs.

Sighing, tranquility so often associated with hospitals envelops them. “What am I supposed to do?” his voice quivers.

“Do you remember when we’d watch Danganronpa until midnight?” He chuckles wetly. “Then we’d argue over who the culprit is or how they committed the murder. Yeah, did I ever tell you that I joined Danganronpa?”

“Yeah, I did. And they made me the Ultimate Adventurer! I guess all those traveling did something for me, huh. Yeah. It’s uh…it’s not as fun as I thought. It’s pretty messed up, actually. But I survived! Are you proud of me?”

“I used those tactics you taught me. But since I survived, I’m contractually bound to return next season. I don’t know what they plan for my character though. I…I really don’t want to go back.”

He almost squeaked out the last words and he took a shaky inhale. His leg bounces again and he looks down at his hands, rubbing each other.

“You’re such a princess, dad.” His eyelids become squinted. “When are you going to wake up? I—” he chokes, “I need you, dad.”

He hunched over, elbows digging deep into his thigh, and he let himself feel everything that he’s been holding inside. The seams holding him close tore itself open to render him vulnerable.

The ravine of emotions festered deep within him leaked out the cracks until it exploded through the floodgates. Everything attacked him all at once, letting him feel it all in its raw form.

Regret. Shame. Guilt. Anger. Despair.

It all had him in a choke hold, leaving him a pathetic mess. Blubbering and shaking for hours. Time zooms past him. He sat with unseeing eyes and the occasional sniffle. Beyond the fogged glass, people move in a mechanical blur, as sterile as the building.

A knock on the glass alarms him. Opening the control panel, the glass slides open. “Visiting hours are over, sir.” The nurse looks exhausted but unemotional overall. They leave before he can even nod in response.

“Well, that’s that.” He turns to his father. “I’ll see you. Maybe when I visit next, you’d be up and ready for another adventure? You gotta teach me that okonomiyaki recipe of yours.”

He exits the pod and then the building entirely.

He rounded the corner and paused in his steps. There, sitting on the dirty cement ground, was Amami. The man leaned on the wall with his knees bent and arms resting atop them. He was staring at the sky and Kokichi wondered how his eyes didn’t burn.

Amami blinks and turns his head to look at him. His lower eyelids were shadowed more than usual and there was a glossy look to his sad eyes. Tousled brown hair sways in the wind. He walks closer and notices a puddle of vomit on the ground; his face scrunches.

“How’d you know I attend here?”

Amami did a weary shrug in lieu of a response. Kokichi blinks and they stare at each other for a couple seconds. He stares at Amami’s eyes, a green undertone appearing beneath the brown.

“Your co-worker told me.”

Ah, he should’ve guessed. “Pink hair, kind of vulgar and loud?”

Kokichi crouched beside him, wrapping his arms around his knees and resting his cheek on his arm as he looked at Amami. Amami nodded, he sighed. Then, “Let’s go somewhere.”

“Huh?”

“I wanna do something,” Amami explains and repeats, “let’s go somewhere.”

He smiles slyly and picks up his head. He took his right arm from under his left and raised his index finger, poking Amami on his cheek. “Are you…” he trails off for effect, “asking me out on a date?”

Amami flustered. “Wha—No, no, no!” He frantically waved his arms to support his point. Should he be offended? “No, I’m just asking you to hang out, y’know.”

Kokichi puts a hand to his chest. “Is it that bad to date me?”

Amami leaned away from the wall to look at him now. “No! No, it’s not like that—you’re teasing me.”

He laughs as Amami sighs and leans back onto the wall, arms crossed. “I have homework to do”

“What about?”

“It’s two easy essays, really. But it takes time to do the research and then I’ll have to stay up later. Then if I stay up late, I’ll have less sleep and then I’ll be tired in class then I’ll be grumpy at work.”

Amami smiles, amused, but nudges his shoulder. “Come on, it’ll be fun! More fun than homework.”

“I’m busy,” he reaffirms, shaking his head.

“I’ll make sure you don’t get home too late. How many chances do you have to get a break? Seriously, just for today. I’ll even help you with your homework!”

Kokichi looks at Amami who looked serious but also pleading. Still, he wasn’t kidding when he said he can’t really risk it if he wants to get more than three hours of sleep. Plus, it’s already 5 PM. “Psshhh, how do I know you’re even gonna be useful?”

“Well, what do you study?”

“Criminology and Justice Studies and a minor in Political Science.”

“Weeeell, I know a thing or two about psychology and politics.”

This makes him pause, face contorted for a prolonged moment. That’s interesting. Amami looks resigned and Kokichi would have to be heartless to dim that sparkle even more. “Woow, careful, Aoyama-chan you’re going to look desperate.”

Amami rolls his eyes. “Is that a yes?”

“Only because I’m such a nice person.”

Amami beams. Solely because of that, Kokichi had the notion that he did something good—great, even. He looks back on the state he found Amami in. Yeah, maybe he did something good. So he reconciles with the fact that he just sacrificed sleep.

Internally, he groans. Look where being nice gets you. He gets on Amami’s motorbike and allows the man to put on a helmet on him before getting on himself. The engine starts and Amami revs up.

He finds himself regretting his decision fairly quickly.

Rantarō felt a wide smile spread over his face as he maneuvered his motorcycle in the cramped road, cars filling the path as traffic was at an all-time high. His eyesight blurs even more with the speed he’s going at.

Ōma’s slender arms fearfully tighten their hold around Rantarō’s torso, his palms accidentally squishing the plush fat near the pants’ garter. It tickled a bit. “Where are we going?” Ōma shouted, one eye closed as the wind pushed at him.

“It’s a surprise!” he hollered back, the rushing wind deafening in their ears as they sped by. A car appeared in front of them and he swerved just at the last second, narrowly dodging a bad crash. Ōma clung tighter and Rantarō thought he’ll get a stomach ache if he doesn’t let up soon.

“Aoyama!”

“Sorry!” He makes another hard turn.

“Be careful!”

Ōma doesn’t loosen his hold and presses himself up further to Rantarō as if trying to merge them together. Rantarō didn’t even know it was possible for Ōma to press up harder.

Rantarō chuckled deeply.

Thankfully, Ōma didn’t have to wait long before he was able to plant his soles on cement. He hunched over, skin ashier than his normal pallor and cold sweat gathered on his forehead in a thin sheen. His lips quivered a bit. “A fair?”

“Yeah, it’s an annual fair.”

“I’ve never been to one, before.” Ōma breathes out, wheezing slightly.

“What?” He loiks at Ōma, almost affronted.

Before he could get an explanation for such atrocity, Ōma let out an excited gasp, pointing childishly at something that people are lining up for, eyes sparkling. “Let’s try that!”

“Ice cream tower, huh. Can you even finish that?”

“We’re sharing, obviously.”

A snort. “Sure, whatever, my treat.”

Ōma whoops and dragged Rantarō to the line-up, a bit of skip in his steps. Rantarō lets himself be dragged as he studies Ōma. The smile and sparkle in his eyes make him look younger, the dark smudge under his eyes look lighter somehow.

Delicate hands held the wrapped cone in between them. In a moment of mischief, he leans forward and bites off the swirled top. His teeth ache with a specific pain and he tries to control the way his face tightens on instinct.

Ōma snickers and sticks out his tongue as if to say ‘serves you right.’ The ice cream melts in his mouth and sticks sweetly to the back of his throat. He sticks his light brown-stained tongue out and pushed the cone forward, reveling in the way that the ice cream boops Ōma’s nose.

He chuckles. Ōma looks like a deer. Then he feels something cold press against his cheek and he stops laughing to look at a grinning Ōma. In retaliation, he leans forward and wipes his cheek clean on Ōma’s sleeve. Ōma’s face scrunches up in annoyance but lets it go.

They roam the fair while finishing their massive treat, and he remembers how much DR merch is in this fair. He chuckled at Ōma’s sad attempts at ring toss and arcade-version of beirut—which is the historically-accurate name for beer pong without paddles and he will die on that hill. Somewhere along the way, they got cotton candy and he’s starting to realize how much of a sweet tooth Ōma is.

“Wanna try that?” he mused out loud, pointing a finger to the roller coaster, hearing the squeals of the people on it despite their distance. 

Ōma grimaces. “Yeah, after I had that ride with you, I think I’ll pass.”

“It’s not that bad. Have you ridden one before?”

“…No.”

“See, now you have to go. Unless you’re afraid of heights?”

“Absolutely not!”

Ah, so he was. Ōma must’ve seen it on his face that his lie didn’t slide because Rantarō was getting dragged by Ōma towards the roller coaster. “I thought you were scared of heights?”

“I’ve always wanted to hop of rooftops like those characters in movies. Can’t do that if I can’t overcome my fear of heights.” Ōma smiles at him. “Plus, I gotta enjoy this break.”

“I am not enjoying!” Kokichi shrieks, holding tightly onto the metal rod holding them down. “I was so much happier when I was on the ground!”

Amami bellows, raising his arm to play with the wind, as the cart accelerates downwards.

“Aoyama!!!” he shouts, “you suck!”

“You dragged me into this!” Okay, yeah, fair judgment. But—

“It is squeaking!! I didn’t know it was squeaking” he squawks. If he wasn’t so terrified, he’d let go of the rod and strangle Amami.

“You’ll be okay.” Amami holds his wrists and squeezes, a promise in his eyes.

He presses his lips together but relaxes slightly. “You better hope I don’t die or I will make you so miserable when I come to haunt you for your entire lifetime and the next!”

There was a drop and he grips the rod tighter than he thought he was capable of. Amami squeezes his wrist in reassurance. “If I end up crippled, you will pay.”

Amami had the audacity to grin but puts his arm around Kokichi’s shoulder…he feels safer than he was earlier. “From the looks of it, if you fall in this state, you’ll die almost immediately. So, don’t worry about being crippled.”

“That is morbid, Aoyama-chan!”

Amami pulls him closer, bringing up his phone and snapping a picture of them. It was blurry, but you can see his miffed expression and Amami’s contrasting expression.

His anxiety peaked. “Keep that! You’re gonna drop it!”

“I’m holding it tightly.”

“Highly doubtful of that…”

He shudders as the ride continues, much to the entertainment of Amami. Wobbling slightly, he gets off, Amami close behind him, ready to catch the stumbling boy. He seems way too entertained for Kokichi’s liking. He bent over and shot Amami a withering glare when he heard the inkling of laughter.

Amami holds his hands up in surrender. Kokichi felt a nudge once he regained his stability and ensured that he’s keeping the contents of his stomach in his stomach. Looking at Amami, he follows where he’s pointing to. “Let’s try that.”

He squints. “Really? Shoot the Monokuma? Aren’t those rigged?”

“Sure, if you’re bad at it.”

He looks back at the annoying face of that marketing bear. You know what, he deserves a break and he was just presented with an awesome way of de-stressing. “Y’know what? Sure, why the hell not?”

“There’s the spirit! Come on, I have a feeling you’ll get off on this more.”

Amami licks his lips and goes first. He stands with his feet apart, shoulders and hips squared to the target in front of him, and with good upper body posture. He grips his dominant hand below the trigger with his other hand fixed under the rail at the front of the (plastic) rifle. The gun rests against the crook of his dominant-side shoulder and lays his dominant-side cheek.

Kokichi leans his head back in surprise and wonder. Expert much? Something dark presents itself on Amami’s face and a bout of apprehension goes through him. Who knew a deadly-serious-looking Amami was so daunting?

Hard lines formed on Amami’s face as he focused intently on the mission. He shot the first shot and Kokichi followed its trajectory. The metal stand fell backwards. He whistled. Bullseye. “That’s so cool,” he whispers. “Where’d you learn that?”

“My dad and I learned from one of our trips. Plus, not my first time playing this game.”

With one last fallen target, Amami turns to him and backs away from the gun. “Your turn.”

“Prepared to be amazed,” he grins. Amami smiles lazily and gestures to the fake weapon with his head, leaning against the booth with crossed arms.

The gun is held in his sweaty palms, stock weld and cheek weld, his stance a perfect copy of what he saw earlier. He aims and then takes his shot. He sees Amami nod from the corner of his eye as the target falls down. He grins and takes another.

At the end, he didn’t have the perfect clear-out that Amami had but he didn’t have a pathetic hit-miss ratio. He’ll take what he can get. “Color me amazed.” Amami smiles at him as he pushes himself off of the wall.

He grins. “Told you.”

“Where did you learn that?”

“You.”

Amami smiles a knowing smile before asking what they should do next. He looks around and spots a claw machine, pointing it out to Amami. “Do you happen to be an expert at those, too?”

“Wouldn’t say I’m the best at it, but I’m certainly not the worst. I have more confidence in my shooting skills than my claw machine abilities.”

He presses his finger to the glass, directing to a doll with fair skin with green hair and matching eyes. He looks at Amami. “Get that one.”

Amami stares at him and Kokichi is out of his depth because he’s having a hard time reading the man. He doesn’t look away though, even as his heart speeds up a bit, the easy smile remains on his face without falter.

Amami is still looking at him with calculative eyes and, if he looks any closer, Kokichi might be able to see the gears spinning like a well-oiled machine. Maybe that was a bit too leading on his part. “Aoyama…?”

That seems to expel Amami out of his thoughts. His shoulders loosen up a little and Kokichi breathes a little easier again. “Yeah…okay. I’ll humor you.”

“Yipee!” he cheers. That felt intense. He looks around at the fair, noting the theme that most booths have. “Jeez, there’s so much Danganronpa stuff.”

“You have a problem with that?” Amami doesn’t look away from the plushies and the claws.

“Eh, it’s overrated.” He shrugs and interlocks his hands behind his head. “I think everyone’s too obsessed with it.”

Amami snorts. “Hot take.”

“Are you one of the diehard fans?”

Amami shook his head a bit, most of his attention focused on the machine. “Nah, not obsessed. Used to like it, but now I’m just annoyed by it.”

“Oh yeah? Why the change of mind?”

“A guy can’t change his mind?”

“Not without reason.”

“Sorry, I’d rather not say.”

“Oooh, mysterious.”

Before Kokichi can prod Amami, he heard the man groan in defeat as the plush falls down to hit its cotton-stuffed head on the baffle and fall atop of the other prizes. Without a second thought, Amami slots in another silver coin and starts his second attempt.

After the fourth attempt, the man celebrates mildly—although Kokichi can see the extent of his true glee—and pushes the doll to Kokichi’s face. He blinks and grabs the doll with both hands and leans it further from his personal space to admire it.

“Well, you have to admit, their merch is adorable.” He squishes the face, silently cooing. He stills as he realizes how big his smile got.

Amami huffs a laugh.

“Wanna try the ferris wheel? It’s better than the roller coaster,” he teased.

“Oh! Yeah, I’ve always wanted to go on a roller coaster.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“It seems nice,” was Ōma’s simple answer.

“Yeah, you’re right about that. The view’s awesome, you’ll love it.”

The line shortens and they climb up the capsule. He smiles fondly as he watches the scene grow more beautiful with each second that they rise higher. Their capsule was painted in a coruscating kaleidoscope of colors from the opalescent sky.

If he strains his ears, he can hear his father’s voice. He looks in front of him and sees Ōma. One of his hands was splayed on the glass while his other arm was snaked around the cotton body of the doll. Awe was inked all over Ōma’s face.

He was leaning close to the glass as if he was trying to come closer to the sky. His lips were pulled to a soft, effulgent smile and his eyes shone with emotions. His face was bathed in soft, warm hues that highlighted his soft and round features.

At that moment, Ōma was the personification of ’wonderstruck’. Rantarо̄ was spellbound and couldn’t do anything but admire the scene in front of him. Everything felt like it’s far away, nothing to harm him.

There’s a warmth in his chest that runs in his veins and spreads throughout him. And if he closes his eyes, he can feel strong arms engulf him in a safe cocoon. If he closes his eyes, he can maybe hear a lullaby fill the space he’s in.

Then Ōma met his gaze. “What is it?”

He startles out of his reverie. “Nothing,” he shakes his head, still seeing reality with a rosy-glow. He looks outside the glass. “View’s pretty, no?”

“…it is.” Ōma glances back at the view. “You’re right, I do love it.”

He smiled, relating to that sentiment too well. “I used to go here with my dad,” he whispered. It felt like if he spoke louder than a whisper, he’d destroy this dream-like rose-tinted moment.

“We used to go here a lot.”

Ōma glanced at him from the corner of his eyes. Waiting.

He smiled. “It’s my birthday today, and he’d always bring me here. The games and the rides, everything, are always the same every year. But, still, we loved the consistency of it.

We always do something new so we’re used to change. But it was nice for something to not change.”

“Why aren’t you two here together?”

“He’s comatosed.”

“Oh.”

“I wanted to keep the tradition going. And, for a bit, I did. Then I stopped.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Couldn’t bring myself to do it anymore, do anything anymore.”

For a protracted beat, neither of them spoke.

“Why’d you bring me here? We’re not close enough for…for this.”

He hummed contemplatively. “Yeah. I don’t know either.”

Ōma nodded, as if that made sense. Maybe it did. Maybe there was enough nuance for Ōma to capture and roll around in his head until the very meaning of his words appeared. “It’s fun.”

He grinned, as if that was code for something, as if they spoke a language only privy to them both. And it probably was. Maybe he read the air wrong. But he doubts it, more than he doubts his memories. Maybe he’s just deluded and romanticizing.

“Right? We should try a ride again.”

“Absolutely not.”

He laughs with an airy feeling, the sound echoing in the small pod.

“You can drop me off here,” Kokichi told Amami and they skidded to a stop. Much to his relief, their ride going back was a lot calmer and less murder-suicide than earlier. “Thanks for the ride…and the trip, it was fun.”

It really was fun. He wants to do it again. He’s never really left the confines of Hongō and now that he had a taste of something he’s yearned for for half his lifetime, he wants to taste it again.

Amami smiled. “You’re welcome. And thanks, too, for accompanying me. It was fun.”

He smiled back and handed the helmet. “You’re welcome, too. Remember to teach how to be a pro at shooter arcade games.”

“Next time.” Amami took the helmet and put it on himself. “See ya?”

“I’ll be behind the counter,” he confirms.

Amami nods back and rides off into the distance, disappearing around a corner. It was only then that he started to trudge towards his dingy apartment. He dropped his bag next to the couch, plopping unceremoniously on the springy thing.

He turned to lie on his back, already dreading the way it’ll ache from how awful his furniture was. He should start on his homework. He opts to scroll through Tumlog instead, then Chit, and then Instant.

It was a mindless activity, robotic motions of double-tapping and scrolling, a familiar guilt in his chest for not being productive, it’s the same night as yesternight, the same routine as every day, mind-numbingly boring.

His eyelids fall, heavy, and he blinks, telling himself not to fall asleep because of the amount of things he still has to do. But, as his fingers weaken and eventually stops scrolling, catching a brief glimpse of his framed family picture, he falls asleep.

His eyes flutter open, neck aching and a golden stream of light blinding him. His eyes open wide and he curses out loudly, scrambling upwards and stumbling around his apartment. With a sinking feeling, he opens his friend’s message:

“Hey, where are you? Me and big sis are leaving first if you don’t get here by the next five minutes.” And, “are you okay? It’s not like you to be late. We’re gonna go, big sis is gonna be late if we hold up any more.”

With a click of a tongue and a mournful sigh, he responds with a joke, an apology, and a ’thank you for waiting, though.’ He grabs his keys and leaves his apartment building. He zooms past the buildings, not letting the painful ache in his now-trembling legs slow him down.

He barely made it into the train and he melted into the cool metal bench. He did what little of his pending tasks he could before he stopped at the station and he returned to running until his legs softened to noodles.

He breathes heavily, wiping his sweat as he plops down on his seat. “You ran here?”

Kokichi nodded, not looking at his golden-eyed seatmate. “Yeah, I woke up late.”

“Really? That’s…unlike you.”

He shrugged, “we all have our days, no?”

They hummed, trying to flatten the single strand of hair that refuses to stay down. “You’re not wrong.”

Kokichi opened his bag, planning on grabbing his hand-me-down tablet and stylus, stopping as he saw the green head of the plushie. His hand hovers before he moves past the doll and grabs his necessities. But his eyes flits back to his zipped bag for a thoughtful moment.

“So,” his classmate starts anxiously, “did you finish the season?”

He looks at the other and hums. “Sure did.”

“How was it?”

“It was amazing! I loved every part of it,” he lied.

“That’s great. Did you get to know the person more?”

He shrugs. “Sure, I did. Or less.”

Their forehead crease slightly but there was no signifcant change in their expression. “Uhm…and which one is the truth?”

“Both.” He claps his hands. “Why can’t there be two truths?”

“There can’t be two truths that aren’t mutually exclusive to one another.”

He giggles. “Silly! Of course there can’t be two objective truths that aren’t mutually exclusive to one another. But whose to say the two truths aren’t exclusive to on another?”

“Are you suggesting that you’ve gotten to know this person more but simultaneously, have known less?”

“Ding ding ding! Bingo, Mr. Detective.”

They press their lips together before brightening up. “I got it. You’ve gained an answer to your questions but now you have more unanswered questions.”

He grins. “Right again. You might really just have a future in criminology.”

They blush but sighs. “That feels backhanded…”

He doesn’t deign that with a response. He’s known they have a future in the field long ago, partly because their uncle is in the same field and nepotism goes a long way, but mostly because they have the required skills. They just need to trust themselves a little more.

And he needs to finish those two essays.

“Welcome, what can I get you for today?” Ōma’s monotone voice greeted him.

Rantarō raises his eyebrow, “why do you look so depressed?”

Ōma glared at him but it lacked heat. “I slept in,” he grumbles.

“Oh… Were you at least able to start?”

That got a more intense glare. “I fell asleep.”

“Ah..” Whoops. “That’s…unfortunate.”

Ōma snorts. “Yeah, I was able to cram it, so it worked out. But still, I wouldn’t have had to do that if it weren’t for you!”

“Hey! You had fun, too. But, for what it’s worth, sorry.”

“Aughh. Yeah, yeah. Next time, take me out in the morning.”

“I’ll think about it.”

A wrapped lollipop got thrown in his face for that. He chuckles and catches it. “Just order.”

“What’s your recommendation?”

“You’re gonna change your order?”

“Why not, right? It’s good to try new things.”

Ōma stares at him incredulously but gives him a recommendation nonetheless. Then he rings him up and the next customer steps up. He sits down on his usual spot (sometimes, consistency is good) and watches people go about their day again.

He takes a sip and his face scrunches up as the overly sweet drink touches his taste buds. Oh, what in the world? He coughs into his elbows. Oh he can feel the throat ache already. He sighs, taking a sip of the drink every few minutes.

Moisture condensing into a puddle beneath his plastic cup while the light reflects on the ice, his shadow growing behind him as the sun travels the sky. Ōma plops in front of him, sighing dramatically, looking tired from his shift.

His head rests on his arms, staring outside, cars passing by in a blur of white and red lights, streetlights hanging overhead. The ice in his cup melted long ago and his drink is clearly lukewarm already.

The cup is free of moisture and is completely dry, the water puddle beneath it following closely, almost dried. Ōma stares out the window, a pensive air surrounding him.

It’s a moment that he thinks shows a little bit of Ōma’s truth. He doesn’t look tired, exactly. Well, he always does but people don’t really think of it so he gets away with it. Rantarō wonders what kind of thoughts occupy that mind.

Almost all the time, he’s desperate to find out what the other man is thinking. Often it’s because he’s genuinely curious about the man. The instances where he looks more somber and astute.

The way he can recover quickly or change demeanor within a second. Other times, it’s because Ōma has an enigmatic vibe to him that teases Rantarō, taunts him with knowing eyes and cold smiles.

It petrifies Rantarō. In a way that’s looming, the uncertainty of intentions, and not knowing what the other knows or is hiding. Rantarō is familiar with what not knowing can cost a person. It makes him wonder if he’s lost something again, already.

Equipped with all the knowledge on psychology as he was, Ōma was an unsolvable puzzle. It kind of thrills Rantarō, the way he can sense that Ōma is hiding something beyond the extrovert personality.

Although Ōma doesn’t do much to hide it. Still, it intrigues him a bit. But more than that, it sends him into survival mode. It’s a mess of emotions. Being enchanted by something that frightens him, it’s laughable and maybe stupid.

There’s just a compelling air around the man. Rantarō continues to observe him. Ōma blinks, slow and languid, tired with his fringe shadowing his face a teeny bit. It seems so passive yet demanding of attention.

Ōma can do nothing and still call attention to himself. Ōma is all-consuming. He just finds a way to worm into your head and now you can’t forget him even if you tried. Rantarō must be going insane.

Ōma’s eyes sparkled when a car drove past, shining light on their irises, as bright as a nebula. Rantarō blinks. What a strong presence for such a small body. “How’d you like the drink?” A smirk.

Jerk. “I think I just lost my throat.”

Ōma snickers that horse-like laugh of his and Rantarō shakes his head. “I can’t believe I trusted you to get me a decent drink.”

“Hey! It is an awesome drink! It’s my favorite.”

He feels the urge to express his disgust. “Ah, really? You have…an abysmal taste.”

Ōma’s eyes bulge. “I have great taste! You just can’t taste greatness because you keep ordering the same thing! Boooring.”

“That’s rich coming from someone who only does school work and work.”

“PFFFFT, as if you’re any better! You spend half the day in this place, just staring out the window. At least I do something. ’Adventurous’ my ass.”

“At least I’m not stressed all the time.”

Ōma raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that…?”

He sighs and drops his head on the table. “Nope.”

He felt comforting pats on his shoulders and whispered ’good luck, dude.’

“Thanks.”

“Slow day?”

Ōma sighs, almost melting onto his palms with boredom. “creamy macha latte, twelve ounces.”

His pink-haired co-worker looked at them from over their shoulder and kept their phone in their pocket, and began working on his drink. He chuckles and leans on the counter with his crossed arms, bending over slightly to make up for the gap in height between him and the counter.

“Aoyama-chan,” Ōma whined, “save meeee, it’s so boring here, I might actually die.”

He smiles, not even bothering to pull a sympathetic face, “well we wouldn’t want that now, do we? Wanna get out of here?”

Ōma pouts. “You don’t even care, you’re so mean, Aoyama-chan,” he huffs. The loud, annoying noise of the blender in the background served to make it all the more humorous to Rantarō.

“Move,” Ōma shoos him, “my poor legs are gonna give out if I have to stand for any longer.”

He chuckled once more and they moved to his usual spot. “So, what’s with the depressing air in here?”

Ōma sighs, adding enough dramatic flair to it. “The owner’s been having financial problems. She already had to take from our salaries.” 

Rantarō frowned. “I thought business was good?”

“It was. But then a new shop opened right next to ours,” he grumbled maliciously, “the owner’s such a shrew, too. The only reason her shop’s doing well is because she’s Andō Ruruka.”

“No way! Are you serious?!”

“Why would I be joking about that?” Ōma breaths through gritted teeth. “I don’t even know why it’s doing well! Hell, shouldn’t she be getting egged or something? I thought people hated her guts!”

Rantarō can at least attest to that, fully aware of the woman’s scandal and drama with Kimura Seiko and Izayoi Sōnosuke. Well, negative attention is still attention. “She’s famous,” he says. “How are you guys coping with it?”

Ōma beams with faux cheer, “oh, we’re perfectly fine! We’re so happy, finally we can relax.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Heh?” Ōma blanked for a moment before deflating. “I think some of them are gonna quit soon, which means more money for me!”

“Oi! At least be quiet about it, dick!”

Rantarō smiles as Ōma sticks his tongue out at his co-worker. Then he turns more grim, staring at the foam collected on the clear surface of the ice. “Hey, do you want to go somewhere?”

“Now?”

“I’m fine with now, are you?”

“Uhhh, well, I guess? I have nothing better to do and my shift’s ending in ten.”

“Ten minutes, got it.”

So he waited on his motorcycle, leaning over to fiddle with his phone. At the sound of bells, he looked up and saw Ōma heading towards him and grabbed the offered helmet. “Please don’t try to kill me this time.”

“Sorry about that,” he grins apologetically. “Come on, have you ever bowled before?”

The answer was no, by the way. Made clear by his 22 vs Amami’s 63. Of course, Amami finds this very amusing. What does he not find amusing? “You’re so mean to me, Aoyama-chan.”

“Am I? Sorry about that.” He doesn’t look very sorry at all. “Here, I’ll help you.”

Amami held him by the shoulders and turned him around, pressing his chest to Kokichi’s back. He tenses up, breath held, as Amami speaks instructions lowly in his ear while positioning Kokichi’s fingers on the heavy ball and fixing his position and angling.

“Let go of the ball near your ankle and finish with your hand in the handshake position after you release the ball.”

“Handshake?”

“Your thumb is pointing up and your palm is facing the inside of the lane, that’s how you know your hand’s in the handshake position.”

“If it’s not covering a lot, your ball speed might be the problem. Try throwing it a little slower.”

He nods and feels the warmth on his back recede. He tries to quell the disappointment that surges through him. He breathes out and focuses on his goal, the ball slipping from his fingers with controlled speed. They both smile as nine pins fall. “There you go,” Amami whispers as he turns the bowling ball around in his palm.

“Thanks.”

In the end, Amami won with 103 to his 57. Right now, he’s sitting at a nearby bench just outside of the bowling center. While Amami walks back to him and hands him a bottle of grape Panta, holding his own drink of choice: highball. He swings his legs as he takes a swig of his drink.

“Where do you wanna go next?”

Kokichi shrugs. His drink was half empty. He holds his hand out to a falling snowflake and admires it as it melts in his palm. It gets covered slightly by his visible puff of breath.

“I’ve never played in the snow before,” he muses out loud. Amami looks surprised. He shrugs. “I always stayed indoors. I never had the time or chance and when I did, snow had stopped falling already.”

Amami before he grasps his wrist and drags him upward. “Come on, I know a place by the countryside.”

“Why are we going to the countryside at 7 PM?” Kokichi has morning class the next day but he really doesn’t want to go home yet.

“To play in the snow, obviously.”

“Why not here?”

“It’s better outside the city. Trust me.”

Acquiescing, he lets himself be dragged to Amami’s motorcycle. The freezing air pricks the slither of skin that gets exposed with the billowing wind. He shivers and presses closer to Amami’s warmth.

Breath fogs up his helmet a bit but his eyes still widen as he sees a star twinkle in the night sky and he hears a sound of awe, realizing belatedly that it came from him. They skid to a stop and Kokichi slid off, staring at the snowy scene before him.

The engine turns off and he hears the crunch of snow below Amami’s feet. He feels the helmet slide off his head, courtesy of Amami, and he looks up at him, aware of how wonderstruck he looks.

He looks up at the starry sky—starry! It’s so different from the sky of the city. Then he felt a prickling cold impact on his cheek. He yelps and looks at the culprit with wide eyes. “You—”

Amami hit him again. Kokichi hid behind the motorcycle, which didn’t provide much cover but he’s small and it worked. Within an instant, he had a stack of molded projectiles beside him.

Amami has the advantage, being athletic and intelligent. Some people just have it all. He digs the snow out and settles himself, maneuvering around the bike to peek at Amami’s location.

An icy ball explodes upon impact with the vehicle and snow lands on his cheek. He grinned, found you. He ran into the wind and whipped his arm back to send it flying. Just like that, the fight intensifies.

Cold projectiles flew back and forth in the air. The motorcycle is covered in a layer of snow. Kokichi wasn’t any better, any more and he might be able to camouflage into the white terrain if the dark wasn’t already hiding them well enough.

He exposed himself to throw another hit but he stopped when he saw a looming figure dashing towards him. He let out an effeminate yell as they crashed together and fell on the soft layer of snow.

Amami pushed himself a few inches away from a befuddled Kokichi. The man grinned and threw the snow he had on hand on Kokichi’s face. “Cheat!” He grabbed a handful and threw it on Amami as well.

Before they knew it, they were rolling in the snow, trying to best each other at close combat snow fighting. It wasn’t even snowballs anymore, they were just throwing snow around like it was sand or dirt.

They tired each other out and they found themselves sitting beside each other now. Amami (who lost his scarf sometime in their scuffle) was leaning on his hands while Kokichi sat with his knees bent together and his arms circled around it.

Kokichi looks at the man, having gotten used to the dark already. His face was red, from his ears to his cheeks to his nose. White puffs of breath from his slightly chapped lips.

There was a lightness to him that was rare, as if all his problems vanished. He was smiling softly with bright eyes. He was beautiful like this.

Then Amami must’ve given in to his body’s desire to lay down because Kokichi looked back and laid down next to him. It gave them a better angle to star gaze.

“What would you do inside, as a kid?”

“I would study.” Amami snorted, Kokichi elbowed him. “I’d read and do deep dives into whatever I found interesting at the time. I’d doodle, too. Even drew a comic that had ten issues.”

“About what?”

“It’s about this group of ten called DICE that commit ’laughable crimes’. Vandalism, pranks, petty theft. ”

“Is that a reference to the TV series, D.I.C.E.?”

“Yep. I would draw myself as this sort of phantom thief that would lead this group.”

“Why pick a ’criminal organization’? You’d think for someone in CJS and PolSci, it’d be the opposite.”

He shrugged. “It was…fun. Kind of freeing. I didn’t have to worry much about anything and I get to do what I want with people who’d follow my command, you know? I’d have control and freedom to do what I want.”

“That sounds fun.”

“Right? We’d have all these cool gadgets and costumes. We’d be unstoppable. I was so into that fantasy that I taught myself skills I felt like my Phantom Thief self would have.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Lock picking, pilfering, sneaking around, tad bit of acting. Ooh, morse code, sign language in America, British, and Japan, and braille. I even taught myself how to be fluent in Spanish, French, and English! I was so dedicated to it,” he laughed.

“Seriously?” Amami laughed too, with a touch of disbelief. “That’s incredible! You did all of that on your own, as a child? That’s seriously amazing.”

Kokichi snorted. “Obviously I’m amazing.”

“I became fluent in Italian and Spanish, dabbled a little in French and Romanian. I’ve always wanted to know ASL and JSL.”

“Oooh, I always wanted to know Italian.”

“Maybe I could teach you sometimes and you can teach me.”

“Maybe. That sounds fun, our own little language.”

“What else did you do?”

“Video games. I’d spend hours in my room just playing games, I’d be sucked into it.”

“You know, I never actually played video games that much.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. I’d go outside to play with my siblings—Wait, that’s not right.” He chuckled awkwardly. “Sorry, no, I meant I’d play with kids in our neighborhood. I’m a very people person so I’d always find someone to play with.”

“You have siblings?”

“Nah, no, no. Sorry, my memory’s kind of all jumbled up. I was really close with some of the kids, I guess.”

“Maybe write down things.” Amami looked at him. “Might help with the memory problem.”

“Yeah…yeah, good idea. I’ll try that. Anyways, we never really stayed in one place for long. Always traveling, seeing new things. Sometimes I’d hate it, most times I loved it. I met so many people, I could never really stay with them due to traveling.”

“Why do you guys travel so much, anyways? You must be really well-off.”

“A bit. My dad was an international aid worker and he didn’t want to leave me alone at home so he’d take me every time. We’d stay in hotels most of the time.”

“That’s cool. The whole not wanting to leave you alone and the international aid worker thing.”

“Yeah, in hindsight, I’m glad he never left me.”

The air is getting colder by the minute and Kokichi’s sure his joints have frozen in place by now. “Should we head back? I might freeze to death any minute now.”

Amami pulled out his phone. "Oh, damn. It’s really late, too.”

They both scrambled to stand up, stretching their limbs. As Amami walks back to his bike, Kokichi spots Amami’s scarf and quickly snatches it off the ground.

He sat behind Amami, who was slotting in the key, and wrapped the scarf around his exposed neck, tying it with a bow. Amami glanced over his shoulder, smiling his thanks. And he laughed later when he got down and saw Amami with a bow behind him.

A ringing brings Kokichi out of his focus. He stretches and stands up while he brings his phone to his ear. He didn’t notice the passage of time and the grumbling of his stomach. “Am—Aoyama.”

“Hey!” It was startling how loud his response was. Peering into the cabinet, he frowns at the lack of food. “Why’d you call?”

“…Dunno,” the man responds after a few seconds.

“Oookay? Do you want to do anything?”

“My dad.”

He choked on water. “Sorry, what?”

“I want to visit my dad! Do you want to visit my dad? He’s really social, a lot of people like him. I want to visit my dad.”

Kokichi put the water bottle on the counter-top, crumpled slightly as his grip tightened its earlier hold for a bit. “Why don’t you visit your dad, then?”

“’m scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“I’m scared that he won’t be alive anymore. What if he’s flat-lined? What if he never wakes up? Or, or, what if he does wake up and he doesn’t love me anymore?” Amami sniffles.

He sees his eyes soften from his reflection on the refrigerator. “Why wouldn’t he love you anymore?”

“I’ve changed. And…And sometimes I don’t remember him correctly.

“Your memory problem?” It’s that severe? Does he have Alzheimer’s or dementia? Maybe CJD? But, no, he doesn’t seem to exhibit other symptoms.

“Yeah, I keep mixing up my memories and it’s all jumbled. And,” he sobs, “I can’t remember. I’m messed up.”

“Hey. You remember what you told me in the ferris wheel and in the snow? Because I do, and from what you’ve told me, he sounds like he really loves you. I’m sure that even if you’ve changed, he’ll still love you.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

Kokichi pulls on a sweater to add to his layers of clothing and grabs his keys on the table. “He will. But if he doesn’t, I’ll be here.” Then he adds, “you’re stuck with me now.”

“How unfortunate,” Amami jokes back. “Thank you.”

He jogs down the last steps.

“Will you go with me?”

He opens the door of his building and rounds to the side, half-a-mind on his grocery list and budget. This feels familiar, he thinks as he looks at a red-eyed Amami. He blinks, taking in Amami’s disheveled and flushed appearance.

“Well,” he composed himself. “I was going to head out anyways…Might as well.”

“Oh.” Amami staggered upwards. Maybe from the speed. “Okay.”

“We should buy flowers and maybe a fruit basket?”

“A fruit basket?” Amami looks at him as he moves with sluggish movements. “He’s in a coma.”

He huffs. “It’s for us.”

“Oh. Why a fruit basket?”

Kokichi rolls his eyes. “Because I want a basket, stop being picky.” In truth, he saw people buy fruit baskets for patients in movies so he wanted to buy one but he wouldn’t admit that.

“I’m being picky, not you?”

“Yep!” He bounces on his heels and whistles as they wait for a cab to come by.

He doesn’t see Amami’s motorcycle anywhere. “How’d you get here?” he asks when Amami stands next to him.

“I took a cab.”

“Ah.” He raised an arm to hail a passing-by cab and told the driver to take them to a marketplace near the hospital. Amami paid, under the explanation that he was the one being accompanied.

He scrutinized the mass of apples, picking two in both hands to examine it then add it to the basket. Amami stood to the side, idle. “You are aware that they’re all apples, right?”

“You are aware that there are varying degrees of quality, right?”

Amami sighs. “They’re all still apples.”

He made a ’shushing’ gesture to Amami, apple still in hand. “Shh! I have to pick a good batch, you know! First impressions and all that.”

Amami snorted and picked an apple, turning it around to see how he does this whole examining thing. He slipped it in the basket, Kokichi had no doubt that he’d have done the same for any other apple in the box.

They walked to the flower shop afterwards and this time, it was him who stood back with a bag of apples while Amami picked flowers of several kinds to make a bouquet tied with a white ribbon.

As they were walking towards the hospital, he asked, “flower meanings?”

“Yeah, I learned about it on one of our trips then I got invested, taught myself the rest.”

“That’s cute. What do those mean?”

“Well, flower symbolisms can vary but this one right here” he pointed to a yellow flower, “is a suisen; it’s also called a narcissi because ’daffodil’ is the common name given to any flower under the genus ’narcissus’ but The Poet’s Daffodil is more associated with that.

This type is more specifically a Trumpet Narcissus. Daffodils are one of the few that don’t have varying meanings depending on the color. But there are general meanings to flower colors so some people apply those to the few that don’t have different color meanings.

Anyways, a suisen means joy and mirth, in China, it means prosperity and good fortune. We’re leading towards that more.”

He points to another one. Kokichi can see passion igniting in Amami’s eyes. He remembers how sad he sounded and he’s happy that this got it off Amami’s mind at least a tiny bit.

“Kiku or ’mums’ originated from China then got popularized in Japan—so much so that it became the imperial crest. It generally means longevity, a violet one specifically means a wish to ’get well’.

The tsubaki, in Japan, means love, loyalty, and humility which makes it fantastic to express gratitude. Red camellia means that someone can face adversity with integrity and grace. It also means perseverance. And, fun fact, it also came to Japan from China.

Fuji or wisteria symbolizes resilience, tenderness and nostalgia. There isn’t much information about ajisai in the ancient ages, but apparently when Japan implemented their open-door policy, the West took some ajisai and replanted it and called it ’hydrangea’.

Because of the alkaline soil in the West, pink and red ajisai are more common. While blues and purples are more usual in Japan because of the acidity in the soil.Ajisai have different meanings according to type and color.

This is temari temari, which symbolizes family peace and harmony. Because of its shape which people say resembles a close family relationship.”

“Wow,” Kokichi breathes out. Stunned.

Amami laughs awkwardly and rubs his nape. “Yeah, sorry. I rambled a lot, didn’t I?”

He shook his head. “Well, yeah, you kinda did. But! It’s totally cool. I didn’t know you knew so much about hanakotoba. That’s so amazing.”

“Heh…what’s so amazing about that? It’s an almost forgotten art, but less so than ikebana.”

“Yeah, but forgotten arts are always awesome, yanno! It’s like communicating but in code, do you know how amazing that would be? Communicating but with flowers? Nobody woulda guess what those mean, it’s perfect for crime.”

“Should I expect DICE to talk in flowers, now?”

He snapped his fingers. “Totally! Now that you gave me the idea.”

Amami chuckled. “Wow, I talked so much that we’re here already?”

“Way to pass the time, amirite? Come on, daddy Amami is waiting.”

“Eugh, really?”

He grinned and they took the lift to the proper room. “Hey, dad,” Amami greets as he enters the pod.

Kokichi stepped inside and waved a hand to the unconscious man. He takes a seat and busies himself by peeling the washed apples. Amami takes the wilted flowers and replaces it with the fresh bouquet they bought.

Amami talks amiably about the past few days while carefully handling the flowers. He looks happy to be able to talk to his father, even if the man is unresponsive. He’s never seen Amami so chatty and it distracted him. He yelps.

Looking down, he saw a tiny droplet form on the pad of his finger. “Whoops, silly me,” he says. Then he looks up at Amami, who is frozen and staring at him with wide dazed eyes. “Amami?”

No response. He wipes his finger and the knife on a napkin, creating two red streaks on the otherwise plain white. He stood up and tenderly shook Amami who tensed up and looked at him with fearful wide eyes.

Amami let out a stuttered breath and blinked quickly then looked away, wiping away the sheen of sweat that gathered in the small amount of time. “S-sorry.” He turned back to the flowers. “You good?”

“Yeah, just a scratch. I’ll go wash this apple, ’kay?”

“Yeah, yeah…uhm, that’s cool.”

Kokichi watches him fumble around the flower arrangement, fiddling until some petals fall. Then he moved to run the apple under running water. He shook away the excess water as he exited the lavatory.

“Hey,” Amami said immediately when he placed one foot outside the lavatory. “I’m gonna head out to get coffee. You want one?”

“Yeah, sure. Get me sugar, lots.”

Amami nodded with a smile and stumbled on his feet as he rushed out. He sat back down, noticing that the dirty napkin was crumpled at the bottom of the bin.

The stall door slams slightly behind him. He put his palm against his chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. “Okay, Ran, five things you can see, go. Uhm…the tiles, the door, the toilet, the light, my hands.”

He continued with four things he can touch, then three things audible, and then two things he can smell, and one thing to taste. And during each step, he felt his sporadic breathing even out and his heart calm down.

Inhale, exhale. “You’re good, man, you’re okay.” With one final exhale, he stands up and leaves the confines of the washroom. He walked towards the coffee machine, spotting another visitor—it seems—with long silky dark viridian hair and a black face mask.

They looked at him and bowed slightly, hurriedly grabbing their cup and excusing themselves. He smiled politely as they passed and stood by the machine, watching a cup drop down and scalding brown liquid pour down, creating some bubbles on top.

He grabbed the warmed cup, bringing it to his mouth to blow some of the heat away. Then, he stilled and went back to grab another cup for Ōma. Faintly, he’s disgusted as he gabs three sticks of sugar and cream each.

On his way back, he catches a fleeting glimpse inside one of the rooms with the glass closed but clear. Cascading dark hair frames the pale face from earlier as they sip on their own cup, the same hair on a different head, stark against their ghastly skin. Golden eyes flicker to meet his. 

He arrives at his father’s pod and the glass slides close, he fogs it up. He looks at Ōma with his tongue stuck out and teary eyes closed, fanning his burnt tongue rapidly as if that alleviates the pain. “Hot, hot, hot!!”

“What did you think it was? Cold?” he asks rhetorically. “Dude, the steaming cup was hot to the touch.”

“Shut up,” Ōma grumbles.

He snorted and blew on his own before taking a sip, feeling its warm journey down his esophagus. “Hey, dad.” He took a sit next to Ōma. “Did he say anything bad?”

“What do you think of me?” Ōma gasps, faux offense leaking out of his words.

He smiles.

“I’m curious, do you attend university?”

“I did, I finished my freshman year and got a few months into my sophomore year before taking a break to do something. I ended up dropping out afterwards, though.”

“Really?” Ōma plopped another slice in his mouth. “What did you take?”

“B.S. International Travel and Tourism Management with a minor in Psychology.”

“BSITTM, huh.” He picks up the peeled skin and eats it, making Rantarō wonder what the point of peeling the apples was. “That makes a lot of sense.”

“Yeah, travel kind of makes up most of my life.”

“So when you said you knew a thing or two about psychology, it’s because you minor in it?”

“Mhm, I was really interested in it that I nearly majored in it but ITTM won me over.”

“I get it. I wanted to do so much. I wanted to double major in Criminology and Justice Studies and Political Science and double minor in Psychology and Educational Leadership.”

“That…” He blinks. “…is a lot.”

Ōma giggles. “I wanted to do a lot.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Ehh, yanno, stuff. Money, schedule, my sanity.”

“Yeah, I could imagine it’d be hard to keep your sanity with double majors, double minors, and a job.”

“Why’d you drop out?”

He shrugs and racks his brain for something. “Couldn’t keep my sanity.” Vague enough? Too vague?

Ōma just stares at him with an unnerving stare, eyes almost blank with speculation. But in an instant, he returns to his normal expressive and animated movements. “Fair enough,” Ōma laughs. “I get it. Sometimes, I want to quit, too.”

He laughed, hoping it didn’t seem strained.

“Tell me about your dad,” Ōma spoke gently.

“What do you want to know?”

“What are you willing to tell me?”

“Have you ever wanted a pet?”

“A cat.”

He smiled, that seemed so fitting.

“As a child, I wanted a dog so much. I still do. But I would keep pestering dad about getting me a dog. Dad had so much patience dealing with me.” He shook his head at his younger self. “I wanted so many pets. Parrots, hedgehogs, rabbits, hamsters. Anything that I saw as a kid, I would want that.

Dad was probably so exhausted because of me. We couldn’t have a pet because of our frequent travels. So I told him, ’if I can’t have a pet, give me a sibling.’ I could have sworn dad would have fainted. ’Now where would we get a baby?’

And then I would shrug and say, ’the baby factory!’”

Ōma guffawed. He rolled his eyes. “I was eight! I was too stupid to know about procreation. Anyways, since he couldn’t give me either for obvious reasons, he’d always crochet stuffed animals for me. Honestly, I don’t know where he got the time for that.

But I would love those little dolls so much that I would never let go of them ever, I’d always hug them wherever we went. I’d even throw a tantrum if I go anywhere without one of them. So you can imagine how much I cried when I lost Perry the Hedgehog.”

Ōma listened with rapt attention. Rantarō continued to ramble about everything that comes to mind.

“He also taught me how to play the piano and the guitar. That’s how my love for music started. I’d teach myself the flute and violin afterwards then drums. Anything I could get my hands on, really. I was one expensive child.”

“So not only is he a travel aficionado, he’s also a music connoisseur,” Ōma jokes, “what else did you do?”

He laughed and they spent hours in that pod, just talking and reminiscing (on his part). They laughed and teased each other. Rantarō has never felt lighter and happier to be in that ’room’ than he did that day.

The doors slid open to welcome a gust of cool wind, enveloping them in goosebumps. They stepped outside, the loud pelts of rain slapping against the hard concrete, droplets hitting their skin despite the shade they were under. 

Rantarō can only sigh as the storm brews and look on in forlorn as his beloved motorcycle takes a freezing shower under the wrath of the sky and the sadness of the clouds. 

Ōma’s face contorted into one of a grimace. A pang of guilt pricked Rantarō as it was ultimately his fault. So he shed his jacket in hopes that its thick fabric would be enough to protect that bag’s contents.

Upon feeling the weight of the leather on his back, Ōma inquires Rantarō with his eyes. Rantarō, for his part, merely shrugs and starts walking to his bike. He picked up his helmet and walked back to promptly place it on Ōma’s head.

His companion blinks with his big, rounded eyes which Rantarō secretly found adorable, with Ōma wearing his jacket that’s too big on him.

“Come on,” he coaches, flicking the visor down, “let’s get you home before it worsens than it already is.”

Ōma nods and follows him to sit on the wet seat, both of them cringing at the feeling of a wet patch growing on their pants. They drive off. Needles of rain slashes Rantarō’s face as he moves as quickly as he can on slippery roads.

“This is me,” Ōma mumbled, almost meek, as he started to shed the jacket. “I’ll return it someday, after I finish laundering.”

Rantarō shook his head. “No, no, that’s fine. And I need it anyway, in this weather.”

“You’re already wet though.” Ōma cringed at the thought of wearing a leather jacket over his wet state.

“I won’t be tomorrow.”

Ōma let the quiet sink in as he thought it over, before sighing and handing it to him. He took and threw it over his shoulder like a towel. “Thanks. For, uh, coming with me.”

The other boy shrugged, biting his lips before saying, “Well, I couldn’t just leave you outside of my apartment building.”

He smiled. “Thanks, still. I should go, then.”

Ōma nodded in agreement. “You should. Take care then.”

He turned around to leave.

“By the way,” Ōma said and he looked back, “I think your father would love you still, so don’t worry about it too much.”

He stood there, stunned, as Ōma disappeared into his place. His eyes fill with tears and he smiles, taking a second to compose himself before he leaves. The rain was as strong as it was when they left the hospital, and as loud and grating to his ears.

He looks back at the day he had and he thinks: dad would love Ōma.

A knock sounded loudly yet sloppily  on his door, a pattern all too familiar with him. Acquiescing still, his hand hovered over the keyboard. He sat, waiting for another series of knocks which came as expected. Odd, he furrowed his brows further. 

Has his mother finally found him? He hasn’t heard from her in so long that he was under the impression that she dropped dead in a pool of her own urine and vices. Whoever it was must’ve dropped to the ground and bumped into his door loudly as a thud resounded. 

Hesitantly, Kokichi stood up, completely expecting the sight of pale hollow cheeks and greasy purple locks to meet him when he opened the door. So imagine his surprise when a man with dyed brown hair fell to the ground, long legs sprawled across the hallway and blocked the path.

Amami grinned at the sight of him. “Ōma, hiii…”

His eyes turn to slits as he looks down at his visitor. “What’re you doing here?”

Amami shrugged. “Missed you.”

His breath stuttered and his hold on the doorknob tightens imperceptibly. What?

“M’ other friends don’ like t’lkin’ to me…” He blinked slowly then laughed weakly. “Ion l’ke t’lk’n’ to ’em either,” Amami slurred to the point his words were practically inaudible. “CanIcomein?”

“Can’t really do anything, you’re halfway in already,” he grumbles after he processed what the words were meant to be. “Come on, then, stand.”

Amami raised his arms and he rolled his eyes and grabbed Amami’s wrists, trying to pull up Amami with great difficulty. He gritted his teeth hard and he felt sweat cover his forehead.

The drunk bastard, for his part, lay limp with a goofy smile at being brought up and then dropped in swift moments. “Want to help me out here?” he wheezes and finally gets Amami on his feet.

Quickly, Amami flails and Kokichi can only repeatedly mutter ’no, no, no, don’t you dare’ before Amami inevitably falls over. Kokichi grunts as he catches Amami with his arms hooked in Amami’s underpits.

Red in the face, Kokichi strived with great resilience to turn around without fully dropping Amami on the hard, cold floor. After a lot of struggling and wheezing, he succeeded in his mission.

Although, he wouldn’t celebrate yet since he only got all of Amami inside his apartment. His inebriated, limp body was very much still lying by the door. No matter, he flopped on the couch and pants with an open mouth.

“Unbelievable,” he mumbled. And with a long suffering groan, he stood up and put more effort as he dragged Amami onto the couch, not feeling too bad about the sore back that he doesn’t doubt Amami will wake up with.

Or become sober enough to take notice of, because Amami soon revealed that he was not out cold. Kokichi can only stare in disbelief as Amami raises a thumbs up and praises him with ’good job!’

His eye twitches. Garnering all of his patience which has thinned greatly, he holds back on smothering Amami with a pillow and sits back on his spot on the floor. His laptop shone brightly in front of him, opened to the Danganronpa website.

He fists his hand as he stares for a long while at a specific set of text before closing the tab and focusing on his paper. Then, “your couch sucks.”

A loud clack was heard as he slammed his finger on the ’backspace’ key, successfully deleting an entire passage of text that he was unsatisfied with. “You suck.”

“Yeah…” Kokichi looks back, seeing Amami’s green eyes holding layers of upset. “I suck.”

Kokichi slumps in on himself, groaning. “Why?”

“I’m a useless older brother.”

That confused him. “Am-Aoyama, you don’t have siblings.”

He shook his head into the pillow, tousling his hair further. “No, no, I do! I have twelve younger sisters!”

Oh. Texts and videos and audios flash in his mind. Oh. “No…you’re an only child. You’re just drunk.”

“I’m not drunk! Jus’, jus’ tipsy.”

“Uh huh, sure, sure. Tipsy.”

“Mhm…jus’ tipsy.”

“It’s late, you should sleep.”

“I have to find my sisters.”

“It’s okay now, Amami-kun.”

“It is?”

“Yeah, so sleep, yeah?”

“’kay..”

Time continued to pass and the moon dipped deeper into the sea of stars. Yet his paper was barely making any progress, thanks to a lack of reliable sources with complete information for citations.

Clearly, he was in a worsening mood, cued by the increase of instances of eye twitches and gritted teeth. He checked the time, reading 12:45 AM, and groaned, head flopping unceremoniously on the table to thunk itself on.

His hands found their way onto his scalp and messed his hair up even more in erratic movements. Kokichi stood up, if only to exercise his sleeping legs and nearly keeling over on top of Amami if not for his ability to catch himself.

A sigh was let out, miserable and pitiful. Nonetheless, he carried on, pricked by needles with every movement. He ransacked his kitchenette for anything even slightly edible. He needs something else to do, preferably to eat.

Alas, in this dire time of need, his dole was to starve for nothing was available—well, nothing that he can afford to eat right now. Despairingly, he slid down the fridge, and sighed in resignation of his defeat.

Before he gave in to the temptation and grabbed a pack of Pocky, munching delightfully on a stick as he settled back down. A snore erupted from behind him and he slapped the empty Pocky box on Amami’s cheek, the one without the drool.

An eye roll and a groan, and he stands up, plucking a towel from somewhere in his drawer to wipe the nasty drool before setting it on the back of the couch. “Tsk, you’re so annoying.”

He glares at Amami’s sleeping form, eyes softening the more he stares at the man. Before he catches himself, his heart pounds on his ribs as he glosses over the smooth skin and the piercings that glint in the light overhead.

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” he mutters, annoyed to a degree, embarrassment taking over most of his feelings. “Aughhh, so what? He’s hot, I can appreciate beauty when I see it. This means nothing.”

He turns back to face his dreaded paper. “Seriously!” he insists, as if his laptop would disagree. He continues to type, anger seeping in the way he smashes the keys.

Rantarō groaned as he turned over on the stiff mattress he doesn’t remember owning. Hands coming up to cover his face as his mouth tasted like filth, his skull felt like it was being squeezed tightly. The world spun around even in the darkness.

Water. He needs water.

“Clearly,” a disembodied voice spoke somewhere near him. 

He removed his hands to look but was forced to close them immediately, head pounding stronger and more brutally at the sight of light. A shade was pulled and he opened his eyes again, blinking groggily.

Slowly, he sat up, spotting the bottle of water on the table before him which he immediately grabbed, chugging it. Water trailed down his chin to his neck and he wiped it off briefly.

Ōma stood in front of him with hands on his hips, looking as if he had not slept a single second. A laptop was open and he cringed at the brightness of the screen. Ahhh, college: brutal and hellish.

Another groan slipped past his lips. Yabai… What did he get himself into? He strains his brain to remember the events of last night. Aughhh, nothing, it was all to no avail. He remembers nothing.

“There’s bottled water in the fridge if you want more. There’s aspirin on the counter too,” he said, as if it was a dismissal, and sat on the ground to do…whatever that is.

He nodded. “Thanks.” Yet he made no move, trying to regain himself first, ensuring that he wouldn’t fall flat on his face and damage the table the moment he tried his legs’ abilities. 

A moment passed that felt like ten minutes, he’s not sure. But his legs work, his world isn’t spinning that badly, and he doesn’t have the dire urge to vomit, he still feels disgusting, but he’ll take what he can get.

He took a bottle of water, noting the emptiness the refrigerator had, and drank aspirin. He turned and leaned his body on the counter, ignoring the uncomfortable way the edge dug into his back.

Ōma looked up from the screen and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He shook his head, “nothing.”

Ōma’s brows furrowed further before letting it go. 

“I should go.”

“How did you even get here?”

He shrugged. “I don’t have much of a clue. I think I drove here.”

“You what?” Ōma had that eerie expression that he only saw once before and frightened him to his core. It’s emptiness that implies a lot yet never tells anything. Unreadable eyes that stare at your soul and dissect you of every flaw and imperfection.

Gone was his animated movements or expressive visage. In its place was uncanniness, the preternatural unreadability of his gaze. It’s not what you would describe as guardedness—and Ōma is as guarded as a penitentiary—but just…

Blank.

“Yeah..” He looked up if only to avoid Ōma’s look, tapping his foot. “That was probably a bad idea.”

“’That was probably a bad idea’,” Ōma echoed, tone heavy with mockery and exuding plenty of odium.

“If it helps, I might’ve taken a taxi.”

“You sound like you’re more certain that you drove here.”

“Well, probably because I am.”

“Are you always this drunk?”

“Kind of.”

“What about when we meet?”

“Less so, but…still with slight blood-alcohol concentration.”

“When you order coffee, is there BAC?”

“Yeah…”

Rantarō sees Ōma clench his fist tight and his eyes hold the minutiae hints of wrath, but otherwise, his countenance remains its misleading stolid indifference. He writhes with a vehement sense of shame and foreboding.

“That day we went to the fair.” Chikushou… “You were drunk that day.”

Dark locks of hair shades Ōma’s eyes as he hungs his head. He thinks it looks like Ōma’s trying to reel in an akuma that threatens to consume him with it’s poisonous fangs and the fiery flames of rage in its stomach. “You were speeding and inebriated with a passenger. It never occured to you that maybe that wasn’t the smartest idea? Or did the alcohol rob you of all of your brain cells?”

Ōma looked up from where he curled in on himself a lot. And Rantarō…Rantarō messed up. “Listen, if you want to commit suicide, fine whatever. But don’t go dragging other people into your mess because you had your head so far up your own ass that you couldn’t see anything else but your own angst. Unlike you, some of us don’t want to die yet.”

He opened his mouth and snapped it shut. There was a prickly hot stab in the corner of his eyes. “That’s…”

“It’s what, Amami?”

The sound of his own name being spat out like venom shocked him. He opened his mouth to say something, ask something, but Ōma didn’t let up from his mordacious tirade.

“Aww, is it too mean? What, do you need your daddy to go and comfort you? Oh wait! He’s in a coma. And you know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe he wouldn’t love you now.”

His jaws snapped shut, sure that tears have started to fall, and he put on his shoes. The door clicked shut behind him, without another word from Ōma. He stood outside for a few seconds before jogging down the stairs.

He hailed a cab and laughs with sardonicism when he notices that his motorbike was at his own apartment building. Thankfully, he got to his flat before his stomach flips funny and he expels something out of his body.

He peeled the fabric that clung tight to his body and threw it haplessly on the floor. He made it inside the shower before hunched over and wheezed, a burning concoction of body fluid rising to his throat and out of his mouth, a long string of sticky spit following. 

The running water washed away the excrable puddle, he couldn’t find it in himself to care about the way it met his toes and soles before vanishing down the drain. He feels the water pelt his skin and he can see the way that droplets fall from strands of his hair.

The sound of rushing water far away as his ears ring, then it stops, and he steps out. He feels the agony that erupts from his knuckles the moment it makes contact with the mirror on the wall. He yells, bending over as he grips the sides of the sink with a knuckle-white grip.

He slams his hand down on the marble surface. His green eyes reflect back at him from the million shards of the broken glass that collects at his sink. He flops on his bed and bounces a bit.

His wet form leaves a dark mark on his sheets. The cold air makes him shiver and he’s hyper-aware of the droplets trailing down his skin. Drops of water fall from the tips of his brown hair.

He can’t help but think that Ōma was right.

Milk screamed where it was being frothed and ice clunks when it hits glass. The clock ticks with every moving hand. The grating sound of a blender fills his eardrums. There is a clinking as kitchenware bumps into each other. A swoosh from a brewed blend being poured. There is a buzzing in the place, the murmur of people stuck in their own bubble. Footsteps resound throughout the place as employees work their due.

He finds all of these sounds obnoxious. They’re incredibly trivial, yes, but he can feel his ire grow with every tick of the clock. In these situations, he has become a Kokichi-shaped bottle that is gradually being filled to the brim with anger. It continues to be pumped into him without an ounce of care for that fact that the lids rattles and shakes with the pressure of the never-ending onslaught of anger.

It cares not for the way that cracks start to appear on his glass body where anger leaks out in his sharp movements and the occassional twitches of his eyes. Kokichi knows his anger was justified. His anger was justified because Amami made temerarious decisions and Amami’s recklessnes could have cost him everything.

He considers himself self-aware, enough to know that he has a habit of spitting out some of the most hurtful things when angered. It’s why he prefers to rein his anger in, why he swallows his cold anger rather than spit it out. Because as much as he prides himself in control, he knows well enough how emotions can string you along like a puppet.

He would rather marinate in his anger rather than live with regret and guilt and shame for the things that his emotional state can make him do. So, just as much as his anger is directed at Amami, it is equally just as directed at himself. While he thinks his anger at Amami is justified, he doesn’t share the same sentiment for his words.

He knows those are not justified, no matter how angry he is or how awful the things that caused his anger to be. He told himself not to stoop to those levels. He will not be like his mother. But how much can one run from their own genes?

He hisses as seering pain stings the back of his hand. “Jeez, ya okay?”

Her question garners the attention of their brunette friend. “I’ll go get the first aid kit.”

“Oi, seriously, you nimwit. You’ve been out of it the whole time, did ya finally fry your brain?”

“Please, we all know having a fried-brain is your thing.” He pushes his hand under the cold tap water.

“So what’s wrong with ya?”

He thanks the brunette for the petroleum jelly and the non-stick bandage. “Your friend hasn’t come in the entire day. Is that related to this?”

“Not my friend,” he mutters. He isn’t sure if they are anymore, if they ever truly were or if they were just some strangers floating in each other’s bubble.

“So ya guys got in a fight,” the pink-haired snorts.

“What caused it?”

He takes his time rubbing petroleum jelly on his hand and covering it with the bandage, mulling over if he should answer truthfully. In the end, he sighs and tells them the abridged version. “He came in last night, drunk out of his mind.”

They remain silent, having an inkling for his dislike towards alcoholics.

“He said he might’ve driven to my place. And then told me he’s had alcohol in his body almost all the times we’ve seen each other.” He twists the lid of the jar of petroleum jelly back on and closes the box of bandage. “He drove me before.”

He takes the jelly and the bandage back to the kit in the staffroom. When he comes out, his vulgar friend cursed Amami out. He sighs. “I said something that was a low-blow, amongst other things.”

“I don’t think we need to tell you anything.”

“So, whatcha gonna do?”

“Apologize, duh…i just don’t know if I want to see him yet.”

“I don’t think you have much of a choice. I saw him loitering outside.”

He looks up at the big windows, noticing brown tuft of hair and a bit of shoulder peaking from the side. He sighs.

“Well, ya still have a bit of time til ya gotta head out.”

He nods. The words he spoke runs on his mind, never letting him forget, not now, and probably not ever. He wonders if it makes them even or if he stooped so low that it’s incomparable.

Rantarō tilts his head back as he shakes the bottle of Mogu-Mogu and wills the coconut-water jelly to fall into his awaiting mouth. Vaguely, he wonders if he’ll choke on the offending cube once it falls down. He learns that he wouldn’t as he chews on the soft thing.

He throws the bottle unceremoniously at the nearby trashcan by the light post, watching it hit the rim but, nevertheless, falls in. He leans on the wall and keeps his hands in his hoodie pocket. His foot taps a rhythm on the floor. The road is still well-populated even as it gets later and later.

The bell chimes and he swivels to face Ōma who walks past him without hesitation. Rantarō followed posthaste, taking long strides to match pace with Ōma. “Wait, Ōma, please, can we talk?”

Ōma continues apace, unbothered. In a fit of desperation, Rantarō’s hand reaches out and stops Ōma. The shorter man sighed and looked at him with a blank face that reeks of exasperation. A different blankness from the previous ones.

It was a cue and he knew it. Now standing in front of Ōma, his mind blanks and throws the script he meticulously wrote into the garbage. He takes a deep breath and pleads for his words to come back.

“I’m sorry.” The man looks unamused but he can tell that he’s listening, he always is. “I was inebriated most of the time we saw each other and…I was drunk when I drove alone or with you. I was drunk when we went to the fair and the visit to dad.”

Due to the lack of reaction, he concluded that either Ōma was splendid at controlling his tics and expressions or Ōma suspected it. It could be both and he wouldn’t doubt it.

“I knew what I was doing and the risks, but I took it anyway. I didn’t think about you and I just dragged you everywhere and into my own problems. I was…I was so focused on my own stuff that I didn’t take anyone else into account.

I—DR really messed me up and once the season finished, I was just a complete and utter mess. Really quickly, I spiraled and then a drink once every week turned into twice every week and then everyday.

I didn’t want to deal with the aftermath of what I went through in the show so I drowned it out.” He looks at Ōma. “I’m not trying to make excuses, I just…wanted to explain myself.

I’m really sorry. I know you probably wouldn’t want to be friends anymore, so I’ll leave you be. I just couldn’t leave without apologizing.”

He knows that he has no right to ask Ōma to stay and give him another chance, so he doesn’t ask for those. He has enough shame. Even if he wants Ōma to stay and continue laughing with him, continue being part of his life, he can’t have that.

He messed up majorly. He can’t ask Ōma to stay after he put his life at risk multiple times, all because of his selfishness and his blindness that was caused by his misery. He was so miserable that he would have made everyone else miserable. What kind of friend is that? He made his bed, he should lie on it. His vision blurs.

“Could you really stop?”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” Amami murmurs, looking at him imploringly. There was a peculiar sheen to Amami’s eyes. Kokichi can’t help but compare the Amami he sees now to the one that would stare out the windows for hours on end, surrounded by a pitifully sad aura.

That hasn’t changed, not much. Except he seemed more…alive this time. He didn’t look like an empty husk with only sadness to feel. There was determination set in the lines of his face and defeat behind his teary eyes.

“I’ll give you a second chance.”

Amami’s eyes widen before a teary smile breaks out on his face. “Thank you.”

“And…” he looks away, nibbling on his bottom lip. But he faces Amami again, aware of his reddened cheeks. “I’m sorry. For earlier. I crossed the line and what I said was a low-blow. I shouldn’t have let my emotions control me like that. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s really not.”

“You’re right. But, I forgive you.”

“Still, for what it’s worth…I didn’t mean it and I know I’m wrong.”

Amami sent him a small, sad smile that cuts to his heart. But, Amami changes the subject before he could say anything more. “I was planning on cleaning up my place, get rid of y’know.”

“I’ll come with. Gotta keep you in check, yanno?”

“That’s cool with me. We have to go back to the café though…my bike’s there.”

He frowns deeply. That is a long way back. There’s also the fact that he doesn’t trust Amami on a bike anymore…but who knows how long it’ll take on foot? “Ehe…what if you go back and I wait here?”

Amami blinks and looks him up and down. “No can do,” he firmly shakes his head. “You need exercise.”

Surely, his despair leaks through his face…or floods his face from Amami’s full-blown laughter. He frowns deeper as he is dragged by Amami, whispering curses under his breath.

The streets were still as lively in the night, even as 10 PM rolled around. The door shut quietly as he navigated himself around the mess of Amami’s apartment. Empty beer cans and alcohol bottles were scattered around the apartment like dust. 

It was impersonal. There were no decorations that told you anything about Amami, no trinkets or photographs. There’s a shirt strewn over the couch’s back, some opened bento boxes and instant coffee cups haphazardly placed on the coffee table.

There’s a finished cup of instant ramen still sitting on the kitchen counter and a full trash bag that really needs to be taken out. A clicky noise alerted Kokichi and he looked down to find an empty bottle that rolled to hit another one.

It’s not too messy, not as shabby as it could be if the place was worse off, but still a mess. “You trying to drink yourself into cirrhosis or something?”

“Yeah, or something.”

He looked around some more. “...Are we deep cleaning at 10 PM?”

Amami shrugged. “That’s my plan. I have more energy at night.” Then he looked over his shoulder as if realizing something. “Oh, do you have class tomorrow morning? Or something to finish? If so, you can just stay the night and I’ll drive you tomorrow.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I finished everything I needed to do earlier. Plus, by tomorrow morning, you’d be in an awful state and worsen as you go through withdrawal.”

“Responsible,” Amami teases. “Last part’s true, though.”

“And it’s your turn to be.” He lightly kicks a bottle that was in the way. “Where’s your trash bags?”

Amami points to the kitchen. “Bottom right drawer of the island.” 

Loud whooshing filled the room as he opened two trash bags for segregation, beginning to collect the nearby cans, cups, opened wrappers, and bottles. A myriad of similar noises appeared at the opposite side of the room.

He saw Amami flattening the plastic bottles and cans, and neatly folding the wrappers. Left hand busied with carrying several flattened bottles and cans and folded wrappers, Amami’s right hand admirably holding various glass bottles in his grip.

He held out the trash bags for Amami to drop the trash and gently do the same for the fragile glass. They spent a few more minutes cleaning the living room, speedily emptying the room of junk with two of them.

“You can go rest,’ Amami told him as he rubbed alcohol on his hands. “I’ll clean my room.”

“I can—”

“Nah.” He was brushed off. “I’ll do it myself.” The door shut in his face, not allowing Ōma much of a glimpse inside the private space.

He cocked his eyebrow but shrugged, Amami can have his privacy. So he lounged around the place, taking in what little personality showed. But there’s really barely anything in the room.

For a traveler, the living room looks like one of a recluse. Sighing, he sinks into the soft cushions that are incredibly different from his stiff, run-down couch. 11:04 PM, his phone screen read before he swiped it open.

When Amami re-entered the living room, he was scrolling through Chit, half-vexed about the abundance of news regarding the new Danganronpa season. Slowly, he was scrolling down, reading the details about it in someone’s post.

Tapping the home button, he exits the app and looks over to Amami. He unfurled his legs from underneath him and walked up to Amami. “Let’s throw these out.” He grabbed two of the lighter loads.

Amami nodded his agreement and grabbed the remaining two bags. Kokichi tensed up as the cool night air hit his exposed arms. “Phew.” He dropped the bags and craned his neck upwards, before stretching his sore limbs.

“Really?”

“Shut up, I’m tired.”

“Your strength is abysmal.”

He pouted. It’s not false, at all. He has a poor diet and he’s sleep deprived most of the time. He lacks the proper nutrients and all his work out is walking to places and carrying trays of orders and stacks of books when he visits the library. 

Kokichi will emphasize, he has a poor diet that consists of convenience store foods and barely eating, coupled with cans of grape Fanta and energy drinks and sugar. Of course he has abysmal muscle strength.

He deadpans Amami, slouching all the while. Amami just laughs and grabs his arm, leading him to the stairs. He whines. “Dude, there’s an elevator, why do we have to take the stairs?”

“Exercise.”

He blows his bangs away, petulant like a child.

“Oh come on, it’ll be quick.”

“You live on the tenth floor. That’s twenty flights of stairs.” He glares at Amami’s head, knowing the other can feel it burning him despite not looking at him. “We’re taking the elevator.”

“I don’t like elevators,” Amami discloses.

“Then carry me!”

Amami doesn’t budge. He keeps his arms in the air. “Come one, you owe me this.”

“Why do I feel like you’re gonna milk this out of me?”

He grins and snickers. Amami crouches on the floor, back to him. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

“You getting on?”

Amami’s arm holds his legs in place and he locks them in front of Amami. He presses himself behind Amami and slither his arms around Amami’s neck, his head beside Amami. Amami shudders.

He raises a hand to point to the stairs. “Onward!” Amami huffs but obeys. He talks Amami’s ear off the entire time.

He groans incredibly loud and rushes towards the couch to flop down, relaxing under the cool air. “I did all the work.”

He opens his eyes to grin at Amami. Amami scoffs and takes off his sweaty shirt, sitting beside him. “What a princess.”

He gulps. Amami’s better off than him, for sure. But improper diet and alcohol consumption shows in the plumpness of his stomach that maintains the silhouette of his abs. His arms aren’t as sculpted as he guesses it once were.

He closes his eyes. “My prince charming.”

Eight hours in and he’s already frustrated. His shaky hands have dropped his phone for the sixth time now. It’s only been eight hours since Ōma left and fifteen hours since his last drink. 

Not for the first time, he’s looked at his wallet contemplatively. But no. Only eight hours in, he can’t give in already. Even if he feels like he’s about to crawl into his grave a couple years earlier than the gods have planned.

He swipes his forehead, his already damp sleeve doing its best to absorb more sweat. The couch vibrates along with his leg’s movement, up and down and up and down and up and down and—

Something rings and it pounds on his forehead. “Aoyama-kun.”

Ah. It’s Ōma.

“Ōma.”

“How’re you holding up?”

He stays silent, holding the phone to his ear, as he watches the world swirl in multiple colors. He chuckles morosely. “Holding up, for the most part.”

A crash and a yelp and a whispered ’damnit’.

“You don’t sound so good, either.”

“I slipped,” Ōma grouched. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

“I don’t have a bed.”

. . .

“I sleep on the couch. Had to sell my stupid bed for stupid money.” Ōma groaned loudly, sounding like he trashed around.

“Proud of you, that couch can turn anyone into an oni.”

He can’t see it but he can feel Ōma’s eye-roll.

“Is that all you called about?”

Ōma hummed. “Yeah, basically. Gotta go, I’ll be late if I wait any longer.”

“You got classes?”

“A nine o’clock.”

“You really walk all the way to university?”

“Nah. I walk to the café and hitch a ride with one of my co-workers.”

“Do they attend the same uni?”

“Nope. They attend community college. But their older sister picks them up. So I have to go, I don’t want them to be late for work.”

“Yeah, okay. Stay safe.”

“Don’t gotta worry about that.”

“Debatable.”

“I’ll go visit you after my shift. Make sure you haven’t choked on your own vomit or something.”

The mention of vomit was enough to get Rantarō feeling sick again. He let out a wet burp. “Yeah..yeah, do that.”

He can practically hear Ōma’s wince. “Ooookay…don’t die.”

“No promises,” he managed to say before doubling over the bucket beside him. He wheezed, gagging.

“Oh, ew.” Then Ōma hung up. Rude.

He groaned, nuzzling into his elbow to try and ease the nausea. For all he cares, he can merge with his sofa and never wake up to feel this sickly ever again. He was all for it. Maybe a few hours passed while he was busy dealing with tremors and nausea..

Suddenly, petite hands were gently slapping his bicep. He groaned, swatting away the person who dared disrupt his time wallowing in misery. It stopped for a while before he felt it again, touch almost ghost-like.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been laying down, trying to sleep it off to no avail as he sweats profusely. He can’t wait for Ōma to get here. Which is weird because he knows Ōma can’t do much about it, but he thinks Ōma can relieve him some.

Rantarō opens his eyes blearily and sees a brown blurry shape. He squints harder and waits a few seconds for the image to clear. The cleared image, however, has his eyes widening to a great degree.

He scrambled to sit up—ignoring the monumental wave of sickness that washed over him—and pressed his back hard against the couch as if it would provide any solace when he’s facing a literal bear in his apartment.

For only a second, he blinks, and it’s…gone.

. . .

He waits with a bated breath, suspense hanging over him like a noose. But after a few seconds with no signs of a bear, he lets out the breath he was holding captive in his lungs. “What the hell…”

His shirt bunches up as he moves his hands up and down, placating himself. His heart pounds beneath his palm. Sighing, he leans his head on the couch, trying to ease his ailment and erase the flashing image hiding behind his eyelids.

There was a ghost-like touch that was slapping his bicep gently. He twitches, swatting at what must be some sort of insect. “Amami-kun,” a woman’s voice calls out to him, gently coaxing him from his already light slumber. 

“Amami,” a voice whispers in his ear, faint breath tickling him. There was some manic shrill to it, that had his heart in a squeezing grip. It has him opening his eyes. That haunting voice chased him til the very depths of his sleep.

He looked around his empty apartment—it was normal. There were trinkets from all over the globe decorating the kitchen island. Then something catches his attention from his peripheral view.

A grin greeted him, manic in its state despite being inert. “...heheheheHEHEHEHE—” the stuffed bear giggles, growing louder and louder and louder and louder—

Hands slap over his ears, as he moves back and hits the opposite arm of the couch. He can only gaze at Monokuma with wide eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks in fat blobs. “Wha…” he chokes before he can complete the word.”

Pink cascades down his walls from the edges of the ceiling, painting his room in neon pink. The laughter continues to increase in volume, screeching into his eardrums. “Amami-kun,” a distorted yet familiar voice calls out to him.

He shut his eyes tightly, feeling his tears wet his lashes. He curls like a fetus, trembling as he hears screams behind his eyelids. He sobs. Someone caresses his cheek and persuades him into opening his eyes.

Slowly, with much hesitance, he opens them and swallows a scream as he sits on a puddle of pinkpinkpinkpinkpinkwhyisitpink— It forces him to look up and he probably did a convoluted mix of screaming and choking and sobbing.

Kudō-san stares (oh kami, where are his eyes—) with concern. There’s loud thuds coming from somewhere nearby and he jumps. It gets louder and he hears someone shout his name. “Stop,” he sniffles, “please.”

“Oi! Amami-chan, open up.” He stays still, even if the person behind him keeps calling for him, sounding like they’re getting more and more annoyed. “Oiiiii! Amami, are you asleep??”

The voice sounds familiar but he can’t hear them clear enough through the water flooding his ears. Something rings nearby and he risks a look. He blinks, looking around his room as he slowly comes out of his shell.

It’s normal. Plain and empty sans the stacks of instant food atop his kitchen island. White walls and a couch without stain. No bear, no anyone. The ringing stops and he turns to his phone on the coffee table, the screen telling him it’s 9:46 PM.

It’s been fourteen hours since Ōma called him that morning and twenty-nine hours since his last drink. Oh. Oh. The familiar voice was Ōma’s, he realizes as his contact pops up again, calling him one more time.

Somehow, blessed with the strength to stand up and not feel like death’s embracing him tightly, he traipses towards the door. Opening it took another set of courage potion as his brain works on overtime trying to feed him horrific outcomes.

Thankfully, for his heart and his mind and overall well-being, what stood behind the door was only a pouting Ōma holding a plastic bag of medicine, bottles of water, and snacks. Ōma rolls his eyes, sighing dramatically, “finally.”

“Hey.”

“You look like crap.”

“Thanks, I was going for that look.”

“Good job, you succeeded everyone’s expectations.” Ōma walked past him, leaving him to lock the door after them. Ōma covered his nose, trying to control his own emesis from the stench of the puke bucket.

The plastic bag slouched on the coffee table, the bottles of water taken out, one in Ōma’s hand to ingurgitate. After Ōma successfully halved the bottle, he sighed with content and luxuriated on the couch. “How badly are you holding up?”

Wordlessly, he reclined on the couch, staring at the ceiling blankly and not even acknowledging it when Ōma placed his legs on his lap. “Did you eat anything at all?”

He shook his head. 

Ōma sighed and reached over to grab the snacks he bought. He tossed one to Rantarō who picked it up where it landed on his stomach. Dark chocolate Kit-Kat, nice. “You’re rich, right?”

Rantarō looked at Ōma, taking a bite of Kit-Kat, finding himself sufficiently disgusted when Ōma ate it like a bar of chocolate. 

“Cool, give me money, I’m going to buy groceries.”

“You want to use my money for your groceries?”

Ōma rolled his eyes. “I’m not that sordid. No, you buffoon, I’m using your money to buy your groceries.”

“Oh.”

“Why?”

Ōma deadpanned him, hand twitching as if he’s holding himself back from facepalming. “Your kitchen is empty. Plus, you need a proper diet to detox properly. I can take my day off tomorrow. So I thought I should go and do you a favor.”

He looked at him with judgment evident in his eyes and made a vague gesture towards him. “You’re clearly in no state to do it yourself.”

This time, it was him who rolled his eyes and snatched his wallet from the table to toss to Ōma. “10-03-01.”

“You were born in 2101?”

“Yeah?”

“Sweet! I’m older by a year, three months, and twelve days!”

“If you’re a year older…that means you’re graduating then?”

“Yep!” he chirps and then frowns in thought. “But that means I have to work now.”

“And what’s up with that? You’re already working your body to death.”

Ōma sticks his tongue out. “That’s different!”

“How?”

“It feels different. Graduating and working for the rest of your life seems more final, yanno? Like a life sentence, an unbreakable contract for life.”

“Hm,” he thought about it, “yeah, I guess.” He called out for his T.V. to open, the device obedient to his orders. “Anything you want to watch?”

Ōma shrugged. “Nothing really.”

He shrugged back, searching for news for the fun of it.

“Really?”

“I asked,” he replied back. Disgustingly, he felt a bead of sweat trail down his neck, disappearing behind his collar and in between his pectorals. He shuddered. Ōma stood up a while ago, vanishing into the lavatory.

News played in the background, serving as background noise more than anything. The monotone voice of the reporter entered one ear and left the other, washing over his dazed mind. He really doesn’t care much for what they had to say.

Suddenly, a cool towel was being pressed onto his temple. He looked at Ōma without moving, leaning into the coolness that wiped away his sweat. Ōma sighed, looking displeased by the news.

“At this rate, so many stores would have to close.”

“Hm?” He closed his eyes.

“More people are moving abroad.” Nimble fingers unbuttoned his shirt. He opened one eye slightly but closed it again, feeling the damp fabric be peeled away from his sticky skin. 

“We’re gonna have less customers again until we reach an era where people never leave their homes anymore.”

It’s a future they’ve all been heading towards for years already. Back then, Rantarō felt kind of sad that a lot of people aren’t moving more, exploring the desolate places or seeing how different each country is from one another.

But now, he doesn’t really care. It’s not like there’s much of a difference really, with how interlocked cultures are. America, for one, is a hub for people from all over the globe. 

“It’s not like we can stop it.” The cloth was now wiping away sweat from his abdomen to his stomach.

“Lean back, I need to wipe your back.” And he did. “Have you ever wondered what the world would be like in the past?”

“Didn’t think you were the history type. Which aspect?”

“I’m not, and society. I’m stuck on my thesis.”

“What’s it about?”

“The Death of a Miserable Society: An Essay on How Danganronpa Affects Society, Mental Health, and Crime Rates. I’ve been writing it for five days already and I’m going insane.”

“That’s a loaded topic.”

“Tell me about it, but it’s too late to go back now.”

Kami, his head was pounding hard. He hummed, trying to think about it. He doesn’t recall with crystal clear memory what his exact discussion with Ōma was, but he knew he gave a satisfactory enough answer to have a good talk with him. 

At the end of the day, he’s wearing different—dry—clothes and finally, isn’t drenched in whole-day sweat. He’s lying on his side because he might ’choke on his vomit and spray Ōma with bile’.

Truthfully, he doesn’t know why Ōma’s staying the night to work on his essay but, as the guy insisted, it was so he can bother Rantarō for opinions and not have to be inconvenienced when he does go out to buy Rantarō’s ‘survival kit’.

He can see Monokuma sitting on his kitchen counter in the dark. “Hey,” he weakly taps Ōma who turns to him with a questioning gaze, “do you see Monokuma in my kitchen?”

He watches Ōma take a few seconds to thoroughly look and turn back to him, shaking his head. “Oh, okay…that’s cool.”

The red glint in Monokuma’s eyes dim.

The pad of paper slid across the coffee table when Kokichi threw it. Seriously, why is there not a single scrap of paper in this place? And Kokichi sits criss-cross by the head of the couch. He opened the app for the cameras. 

The app gave him the needed data, scanning what Amami’s temperature and heart rate was at the time. From the turning and tossing, he can conclude that Amami suffered from a nightmare yet stayed asleep. 

At least he didn’t receive any seizure warnings while he was gone to buy paper. He hummed, okay. That’s good. Even his fair skin tone didn’t seem to hold a candle to the ghostly pallor that coated Amami. He raised the IR thermometer and in a second he got the results.

“38.3 degrees Celsius. That’s significantly lower.” He tore the paper wrapping of the pad of paper, clicking his pen to note down what happened for the past one hundred and twenty-four hours. Chiiiiiime, his screen lit up.

Neglecting the notification, he continued to scrawl on paper in his scratchy (but legible!) handwriting. It slipped his mind by the time he finished recording the events since Amami last touched a single drop of alcohol.

He moved around the kitchen, preparing a plate, following Amami’s detox diet. Clunk as the glass is set on the little slot in the refrigerator. With no need for words or actions, water poured.

 Gently, he shook Amami awake, finding him cute when he looked so vulnerable and sleepy. “Time for meds,” he explained. Gradually, understanding and clarity swirled in Amami’s eyes and he gingerly sat up. He handed him the plate.

Silently, they watched whatever random video seemed appealing on the TV and ate their portions. Afterwards, Kokichi dropped the tablet in Amami’s waiting palm and handed him the glass of water. Surprisingly, Amami didn’t go right back to sleep.

“How’re you feeling?”

“A little better.”

“Did you get good sleep?”

“I feel like I haven’t slept a blink.” Amami blinked, one eye before the other. “Kami, my mouth feels so dry.”

He stood up and grabbed an ice cube. “Here, I heard it helps with dry mouth.”

Amami opened his mouth, tongue somewhat out. Kokichi faltered before placing the cube on Amami’s tongue which retracted the moment the sensation hit. He wiped the tiny bit of saliva that got on his finger when Amami pulled his tongue back.

Clearing his throat, he settled back down. “Did it help?”

Amami hummed around the ice, the silhouette of the cube outlined his cheek. “A bit…I guess.” He opened his eyes, looking at Kokichi from beneath his lashes. “Thanks.”

“No problemo, it’s all thanks to the internet.”

“Not that,” he softly shook his head. “For doing this.”

Kokichi cocked his head.

“Helping me through this,” Amami clarified, closing his eyes again, and resting his head on the couch. “For cooking early mornings so I won’t have to do anything but eat and then take my meds. For staying over and helping me with the nightmares and falling asleep.”

Amami moved to find a more comfortable position. “Regularly checking up on me.”

“Oh.” Kokichi scanned the room as if the words he needed would miraculously write themselves upon the walls. “That’s…no problem.”

“You didn’t have to.”

But he wanted to. “It’s hard to go through a dark time by yourself.”

Amami was silent. “Yeah, it is.”

“You didn’t have to stop.”

“I wanted to,” Amami shrugged. “It gets tiring…that harmful routine, you know?”

“No, but I can imagine.”

“Yeah… It’s just…you find yourself just wandering around like a programmed robot. You get so lost in your own despair, kami, I hate that word.”

He scoffed. “I can imagine.”

“It’s pitiful. Sometimes I wonder if I’m actually lying next to my dad in that medical pod in a coma. It feels like I’m brain-dead.” Amami sighed, shrugging weakly. “I guess I needed the push you gave me.”

Silence blanketed them. The conversation over and done with. TV played white noise for them. Kokichi drummed his fingers on his thighs. “Hey, what if you move in?”

What? “Huh?”

“You get a comfortable place to live in, I can pay the rent. You’re practically living here already. Plus, it kinda seems dumb to keep paying your rent when you’re staying here when you’re not in school or work.”

“...And what do you get out of it?”

“A housemate,” was his plain and simple answer. “Plus, you get to keep me in check. Win-win, right? You get a good place to live and you don’t have to worry about rent, and I get a service animal.”

Eh…. “You reduced me to a therapy animal?”

He shrugs. “A personal unlicensed therapist, then? Come on, what have you got to lose?”

Nothing, really. It’s a pretty solid deal and they’re…friends. That’s the thing though. It seems kind of too good to be true, and Universe Rule numbered something is ’if it seems too good to be true, it probably is.’

“Hey, you already got your free trial living in this place.” Amami gestured around. “I mean, sure, you had to take care of me so I don’t know how well that experience was, but it couldn’t have been that bad. I wasn’t awake enough to make it unpleasant.”

He rolled his eyes but the idea stuck. “I’ll…think about it.”

Amami shrugged and laid back down, knees bent because Kokichi was in the way. “Fair enough, move in whenever you want.”

“Or I decline.”

“I have a feeling you won’t.”

“You got evidence about that?”

“Gut instinct is as important as evidence. Sometimes you just have a feeling which leads you to the evidence, you know? Really, how can you be a great detective if you won’t be skeptical and follow your gut from time to time?”

He has a point there and the guy did survive a season in a killing show. “Fine, fine. Whatever. I’ll still think about it.”

“Take your time,” he waved his hand, his other arm over his eyes. In the meantime, Kokichi stood up to take care of their dishes and clean the table. After making sure everything was prepared for his thesis presentation the next day, he sprawled on the mattress on the floor.

He stretched his limbs, almost moaning at the pleasure it gave him. Before he dozed off, he had the thought to check his phone and just then remembered the notification from earlier. Now recalling it, he hopes it wasn’t anything important.

Anxiety set his spine straight as he read the preview of the email. Glancing at Amami’s sleeping physiognomy, he felt a heavy anvil settle in his intestines, his gut slowly sinking under its weight. 

Clicking it off, he set it on the table. His recently relieved muscles stiffened with tension again. He tried to sleep and succeeded poorly, leaving him with disturbed sleep and left him to wake up feeling awful.

Kokichi heard her before he saw her. His mother banged on the door like a possessed woman. Her hair stuck up everywhere and she wore tattered stained clothing, rapping her prominent knuckles on his door. He could hear his neighbor’s infant wailing at her riotus behavior.

There were shards of glass on the floor a few feet away. He guesses that was the bottle she threw at his neighbors when they attempted to stop her havoc. She hadn’t noticed him yet, shrieking like a banshee as if the door will open and he’ll magically pop up behind it if she does it louder.

He feels an incoming headache, the one he always gets when he thinks about the prospect of dealing with his inebriated mother.

A month has passed since then and Rantarō can say with confidence that he’s been clean for a month, five days, and seven hours. Ōma ended up moving in with him after three days of considering his offer, coming in at night with all his stuff.

Rantarō suspects that what won Ōma over was the fact that his symptoms unexpectedly spiked and left him bed-ridden for that week, suffering from a high fever, vivid hallucinations, and seizures. 

It got so bad that he almost died if it weren’t for Ōma’s quick thinking. Ōma called a doctor over who checked on him and he made a fairly quick recovery, considering the situation. And, though Ōma would never admit it, Rantarō knows about the guilt caging Ōma.

Thankfully, Ōma’s record of his early days in detox helped a lot to determine the next steps and the doctor praised Ōma for taking care of him so well. Honestly, that entire ordeal was a blur and most of what he remembered were the night terrors.

He remembers the gory images his mind taunted him with and the iconic smirk of a certain bear that still lurks in the dark corners he passes by. He splashes his face for the nth time before finally exiting the bathroom.

Quickly, Ōma exits the quiet video he was watching and switches to playing music. It was too late. Rantarō already saw the news report he was watching. He takes a deep breath and walks into his room, grabbing a World Encyclopedia and his projector.

His room is filled with images of the world in a second. In his free time, he’d look at photos of beautiful places around the world, everyday going further and further back in the past. His chest always fills with awe as he sees how much more beautiful the world used to be.

Today though, his happiness and amazement is quenched and overpowered. A month has passed which means a month closer to the next season of Danganronpa. Dread fills him, remembering the contract he signed over a year ago. 

He picks up his phone and scrolls his contacts. He stops when he sees a familiar name, the one he’s looking for: Shirogane Tsumugi. Riiiiing……riiiing……riiii—Hello?

“Shirogane-san, it’s me.”

“Amami-kun!”

“Yeah,” he chuckles weakly.

“U-uhm…what is it?”

“Oh, uh, nothing. I guess I’m just checking in on you? Next season is near.”

“Oh…I’m doing okay. Ho-how about you?”

“Better now.”

“That’s good.” And he can almost hear the kind smile she always wears through her voice. He can see a mirage of her in the blues of the ocean projected on his wall. Can see her venetus eyes looking at him with so much kindness behind those round glasses she always wipes clean.

And he yearns. He yearns for the connections he made during that high-tension high-pressure scenario. He misses them. It’s odd. But those memories they made, simulated as it was, were as real as the outside world to all of them. 

He knows, though, that the shadows were stronger for any of them to have the strength to try and connect more to the faces and voices of their killers and their victims, their reminders. He can’t blame them that barely any effort to keep in contact was made, he didn’t try either.

Shirogane did. 

She tried so hard and they all ignored her, too blind in their own hurt and too angry at everything to look at her sad yet still hopeful eyes. “I guess I’ll see you then.”

“Yes,” she replied, “I’ll see you, then, Amami-kun.”

He smiles, contrite. “For what it’s worth, I’m really sorry. And…thank you.”

There was no response as Shirogane hung up. He looks at the pictures of sakura trees of older times, watches a blossom fall to the ground in a sea of pastel pink.

He yawns and stretches. The TV’s light shines on their faces, displaying a ’game over’ menu. “Should we sleep already?”

He shakes his head. “I don’ wanna yet.”

“Kich…” a concerned frown overtakes Amami’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“What are you talking about? Nothing’s wrong.” He grins and looks at Amami, controller back in his hand. “Maybe you should sleep, you’re already making things up.”

“That’s BS and we both know it. Something’s been bothering you all day.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, “you.”

“Aside from me. I didn’t study psychology for you to gaslight me.”

“It is not gaslighting! Gaslighting is a serious manipulative tactic that takes a lot of effort on part of the manipulator to get you to slowly but surely doubt your own mind and should not be thrown around so easily. Also, you stopped studying psych.”

Amami looked unimpress. “Okay, then, it’s just blatant lying and you being a little schmuck. And FYI, I’m continuing my psych studies on my own.”

“Really? Since when?”

“Since I became sober. Stop trying to change the subject.”

“Ran…”

“Yeah?”

“Anyone ever told you you’re annoying?”

“Me? Nope, but I’m sure you can’t relate.”

“They’re all lying to you just to be sycophants. But luckily, you have me to be honest to you.” His smiling face turns upside down. “You’re annoying.”

“You can always look for another place to stay.”

He gasps. “So that’s your ulterior motive! You dirty little creep! You just want to keep me here and rely on you. I should have known a psychology student would be so manipulative.”

“Yet here we are. Also, you wanted to take Psych.”

“Duh, I wanted to learn manipulation. This phantom-theif-slash-leader-of-a-secret-very-evil-organization needs to know manipulation tactics, yanno.”

“Oh, but you’re such a master already.” Amami was smirking the whole time but his face became serious again. “Stop trying to change the subject.”

He rolls his eyes and looks away, biting his lower lip. He sighs for the nth time of his life. “Do you remember when I accepted your offer to be housemates? Yeah, well. That day, my mother somehow found my address.

She’s an alcoholic, has been for majority of my life. Ever since my dad went to jail when I was younger. When you came knocking on my door, I thought it was my mom. I haven’t heard from her since I moved out, thought she died already.”

Amami had a small frown on his face but didn’t comment, just listened silently.

“The moment I received the email that I was granted the scholarship, I booked it outta there. I’ve been saving up money for years, pickpocketed some people, did gigs here and there. Told her that she gave me the exact amount when she told me to buy another bottle. Practiced my phantom thief skills,” he joked.

Amami smiled but it was weak. He sighs, rubbing the space between his eyes.

“Earlier, my landlady called me and said she came by earlier and caused a ruckus. She was banging on the door non-stop, even doing some damage, and kept yelling, my old neighbors had a newborn baby and wouldn’t stop crying. She threw a tantrum when confronted, apparently. Threw a bottle and almost hit the mom in the head.”

“Crap…” Amami spoke under his breath.

He chuckles pathetically. “Yeah…My landlady said she got charged with assault, disturbance of the peace, and destruction of property. The couple sued, too.”

“What’re you going to do?”

He fiddles with the controller. “I’ll bail her out. I’ve been thinking of getting her into rehab way before that incident. Her neighbor got in contact with me, said my mom’s gone mad.”

Amami nodded and pushed his tongue against his cheek. What he’s exactly contemplating, Kokichi isn’t sure. But he found out soon enough when Amami placed his hands on top of his own.

Then he wrapped his arm around Kokichi’s shoulder and pulled him into Amami’s chest and wrapped his other arm around Kokichi’s waist. He was tense at first but he melted into the embrace, holding Amami’s shirt with his fists.

Amami hugged him quietly, running a soothing hand on his back and pressing his lips on the crown of his head. Kokichi would be embarrassed at the size of the wet patch on Amami’s shirt or how quickly he cracked or how tightly he held onto Amami if he wasn’t so tired and relieved.

He’s calmed down to slight sniffles already, even so, he remains pressed up against Amami, not yet ready to face the embarrassment brought on by his sudden crying. Logically, he knows that Amami doesn’t mind, the opposite, surely.

Regardless, he still feels humiliated that he was so vulnerable. Though it isn’t the first time, once he’s thought about it. He cried in front of Amami back when they fought, didn’t he.

Damnit, he suffocates himself further against the soft fabric of Amami’s striped shirt. Somehow, he feels the huff of breath that signifies that Amami found this amusing. Does studying psychology make someone so great at mind-reading?

Or…does Amami just know how to read him that well? He pulls himself away and smacks Amami on the bicep. The other just grinned, as if he was privy to the entire thought process behind the slap.

“Meanie,” he mutters.

“What’re you going to do after you graduate?”

The lights were dim and he could see several capsule-shaped pods surrounding a massive center pillar. Each pod had several wires hooked from all sorts of plugs. It was a spacious room but the amount of people in white coats made it seem more cramped.

He stands before his own pod, noting the black cushioned interior. He hopes it’s at least comfortable, though he would most likely not feel it.

“Strip,” the stern woman next to him orders. She points to a basket next to the pod. “Put your clothes in that basket.”

He takes off all of the articles on him, one by one, shivering with every area of skin exposed to the conditioned air. Then he walks to sit inside the pod. The team surrounding him erupts in a flurry of movement.

A visor was placed on his head firmly. Wires were connected to him. Screens surround him, displaying his vitals and other medical patterns, words, and numbers. He sighs as he is pushed down to lay on the soft cushion.

The headset lights up to a screen that greets him.

Initiating: New Bullet Refutation V3: Everyone’s New Semester of Killing.

He gulps.

Syncing…

Loading….Please do not remove your helmet.

His heart pounds loudly in his chest, nerves alight.

Begin…

Danganronpa V3: Killing Harmony

His world starts to fade to black and he feels sleepy.

.

.

.

Welcome, Ōma Kokichi: the Ultimate Supreme Leader.