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lastbluetardis · 4 years ago

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Chemical Reaction (18/22)

Summary: Though their chemistry class is now over, the chemistry between James and Rose is just getting started. Together, they navigate the highs of new love and the lows of coping with past trauma to forge deep and unbreakable bonds of love and commitment. Part 2 in the Catalysis series. Tagging @doctorroseprompts

This chapter: ~6900 words, teen

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AO3 | FF | TSP

Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7 | Ch8 | Ch9 | Ch10 | Ch11 | Ch12 | Ch13 | Ch14 | Ch15 | Ch16 | Ch17 | Ch18 | Ch19 | Ch20 | Ch21 | epilogue

James was shaking. It was like he hadn’t eaten in too long and his blood sugar dropped too low and his body started rebelling against him until he gave it nourishment.

Only this was worse. Much, much worse. He was dizzy and nauseated and crippled with grief.

How had the night gone so wrong? They’d been having fun at the Phillies game, hadn’t they? They’d been laughing and lighthearted, and were so exhausted that they’d been a few minutes away from collapsing into bed together.

Then he’d gone and snooped through Rose’s mail. He should have ignored the letter. He should have asked her what it was, and asked why Jimmy had contacted her.

Would she have told the truth?

He hated that he had to ask that question, and he hated even more that he didn’t have a definitive answer.

His body moved on autopilot down the many flights of stairs of Rose’s building, not entirely aware of his surroundings. It was a miracle he didn’t trip down the steps and break his neck, considering he couldn’t quite feel his feet. He couldn’t feel much of anything apart from the heavy, aching pressure in his chest and the acid roiling in his gut.

James slipped into his dark car, which was still warm from the drive to her flat. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be with Rose, holding Rose, snuggling Rose in bed as they drifted to sleep.

Instead, here he was. About to drive home. Alone.

A break. Rose wanted a break. Because he had been such an insensitive arsehole.

But so was she.

Every insecurity he’d shared with Rose, every heartbreaking moment of the aftermath of his parents’ death… had Rose not wanted to hear about any of them? He felt stupid—so stupid—for baring so much of his soul to her without realizing she wasn’t reciprocating. How had he ever thought the nuggets of information she’d dropped for him constituted reciprocity? She had put in the bare minimum of emotional effort, giving him just enough that their communication felt like a two-way street. Did she know what she was doing? Had this been her plan all along? Get him comfortable and familiar with her so he would fall utterly in love with her? So he would have sex with her? Was that all she had been after this whole time? Had she taken advantage of his inexperience and banked on him not realizing she wasn’t putting in as much effort as he was?

His shoulders shook as he wept into his hands, those ugly, nasty thoughts eating away at his mind until he couldn’t think of anything else. He didn’t want to believe that about Rose. These last four months with her had been nothing short of bliss. He’d never connected with anyone as much as he had with Rose. He was desperate to believe that what they’d had was real. It had to be real. It hurt too much for it all to have been nothing.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting in the dark before his tears stopped enough for him to turn his car on. The engine growled to life, and the time 12:03 flashed blue in his eyes. Had it only been twenty minutes since he had first pulled up to Rose’s flat? How had twenty minutes completely destroyed the last seven months of their friendship and relationship?

His vision blurred again with fresh tears, but he impatiently rubbed them away to put his car in gear and drive off down the deserted street.

It probably should have bothered him that he didn’t remember driving. Anything could have happened. He could have run every single stop light, could have hit anything or anyone. But he was suddenly home, pulling into his dark driveway sometime later. His house was equally dark. He hadn’t left any lights on because he hadn’t expected to come back here tonight.

The house was dead silent. Not even his cats could deign to greet him. He toed off his shoes by the front door then plopped his keys and wallet into the dish on the cabinet beside it.

“Pip?” he croaked, voice raspy from all the tears he’d shed. “Merry? Gollum?”

There was a tiny chirp from the living room—Pippin and Merry were curled together on the sofa. James frowned. They usually slept in his bed, even on the nights he didn’t come home. He stepped over to them and gave them each a few chin scritches, but they were too drowsy to do much other than purr lightly.

“Where’s Gollum, eh?” he asked them, glancing around the living room. The Siamese wasn’t in the cat tree, or anywhere in sight. After the night he’d had, it would be his luck if Gollum had crawled off somewhere and died.

Whatever. He would look for him in the morning. James wanted nothing more than to strip down to his pants, fall into bed, and not wake up for a few days.

However, those plans were instantly scrapped when he stepped into his bedroom and was greeted with the pungent, acrid odor of ammonia. A huge, reeking damp spot sat in the middle of his bed.

“God-fucking-dammit!” he shouted, kicking his bed frame.

He cried out and hopped on one foot as his toes burned in agony. His anger surged. Anger at himself, for jumping to conclusions and making too many accusations; anger at Rose, for keeping all of her secrets; anger at Jimmy, for everything he’d done to Rose; anger at his cat, for weeing on his bed when all he wanted to do was sleep and not wake up for a very long time.

James sank onto the edge of his bed—far away from the urine stain—his tears starting up again in earnest. He wanted Rose, and he hated that he wanted her. She had broken his heart more thoroughly than anyone ever had before, yet he still loved her. God, did he love her.

Was that wrong of him though? Was it unhealthy that he wanted her, wanted to make up with her, after everything they’d said that night? Could they even make up from something like this?

He hoped they could. He hoped they could find some sort of middle ground. What that middle ground looked like, he didn’t know; his brain was too foggy with exhaustion and grief to think about possible resolutions and compromises they could make.

Something vibrated against his thigh. Sniffling and wiping his sleeve across his running nose, James fished his mobile out of his pocket. A new message from Rose.

Did you make it home okay?

He wanted to reply, “What do you care?” but curbed the impulse. That wasn’t fair. If she’d had to drive home at midnight after the argument they’d just had, he would want to know she was safe.

“Yeah,” is all he sent.

Okay. Glad to hear it. Sleep well James.

“Fat fucking chance,” he muttered to his phone, and instead typed out, “Yeah. You too.”

He set his phone face-down on the mattress beside him and rubbed his fingers into his eyes. A throbbing headache was beginning behind his brow. He would love nothing more than to sleep soundly and dreamlessly, but knew that his brain wouldn’t shut down enough for him to get any restful sleep.

Besides, it’s not like his bed was in any sort of state to be slept in.

With a groan, James pushed himself to his feet and tucked his phone into his pocket. He ripped off all the layers of his bedding, cursing when he saw they were soaked down to the mattress cover. Had Gollum held his bladder all goddamn day so he could piss right through everything?

He carried the stinking pile of sheets and blankets to his laundry room and settled in for a long night of washing. He stuffed the duvet into his washer—glad this home used to belong to a single mother of three who had invested in a giant washing machine, and left it behind when she’d moved out—and dumped in two detergent pods before programming a long, hot wash cycle. He then took the rest of his blankets to his kitchen sink.

The sight of two days’ worth of dirty dishes made him want to throw them all against a wall—broken dishes didn’t need to be cleaned. However, the mess of broken dishes would be more taxing. Sucking in a deep breath, he blew it out noisily as he dropped his sheets onto the floor and loaded everything into the dishwasher.

When the sink was empty, he grabbed his blankets and gave them all an individual rinse to hopefully keep the cat urine stain from setting.

It took nearly two dryer cycles for his duvet to be completely dry, and then another two loads of laundry before the rest of his blankets and sheets were clean. To his relief, all traces of cat urine odor were gone.

It was the dead of night by the time he made his bed; if he fell asleep right now, he would get at least four hours in before he would have to get up for classes. Was it worth it to try to sleep? He was keyed up from his middle of the night laundry session and his brain was still too loud. Maybe he should give up on the notion of sleep and try to take a nap after classes. Though would it even be productive if he attended classes?

James flopped onto his back on the fresh duvet, breathing in the scent of clean laundry. He would have to revoke the cats’ bedroom privileges until they—Gollum—proved they could be trusted not to wee on everything.

He sat bolt upright. He hadn’t thought to check the guest bedroom. Grumbling to himself and crossing his fingers, he jogged down the hall, and cursed vehemently under his breath when he smelled cat urine.

What the hell? Should’ve left the stupid arsehole to drown.

Well. He was already awake. In for a penny, and all. Stripping that bed as well, he began the same laundry routine. While that duvet was in the wash, James indulged in a quick shower. The sweat and grime of the previous day coupled with crying his eyes out intermittently for the past few hours made him feel filthy.

The shower didn’t relax him as much as he’d hoped, not when the evidence of Rose was all around him. He hadn’t realized how completely she had insinuated herself into his home, into his life. Her shampoo, conditioner, and body wash sat right beside his, her bottles of pink and yellow keeping company with his blue and red ones.

Firmly ignoring her products, James rushed through his shower, lathering his hair and body in record time. But when he went to his pajama drawer, he was yet again reminded of Rose when he saw a set of her pjs in the drawer too. He couldn’t help but touch them, feeling the soft fabric beneath his fingertips as his brain reminded him of all the times he’d pushed her top off before they made love.

His stomach ached with longing. Hurriedly shutting the drawer, James instead moved to grab a pair of boxer-briefs. Rose’s knickers sat in a small pile in that drawer too. Growling in frustration, he grabbed a pair of pants at random and slipped them on before bending to root through his t-shirt drawer. Unsurprisingly, he found several of Rose’s shirts mixed in with his.

How had he not realized how much of Rose existed in his house? How had he not realized that her light and beauty shone through his home, and that she had made it her home too?

Because I loved it.

And he had. He had loved living with Rose, and had been counting down the days when she would officially move out of her flat and into his house.

His tears nearly started up again when he realized that he may never share a home with Rose if they couldn’t find a way to work through all that had been said. No more sleepy mornings spent giggling and kissing in bed. No more impromptu dance parties in the kitchen just because they felt like being silly. No more late-night chats that sometimes carried them into the wee hours of the mornings. No more exploring every beautiful inch of her body and losing himself in her love and pleasure.

He didn’t particularly care about the prospect of no more sex. Brilliant though it was, he found himself more devastated by the loss of Rose’s friendship than the loss of her body. He had fallen in love with her, and the thought of her not being in his life anymore was agonizing. They’d known each other for seven months, and she had somehow become a constant in his life, an unmovable force that he’d been confident would never be gone.

The unknown was killing him. The uncertainty of whether he and Rose would be able to make up. If they did manage to reconcile, to forgive and heal, would their relationship look the same as it did before?

A distant chime from down the hall told him the wash cycle was finished. Sniffling, James pulled on a soft, worn t-shirt and padded down the hall to continue his laundry. When the duvet was in the dryer and the sheets were in the washer, James started searching for Gollum. As irritated as he was with his cat, he was also concerned; apart from the first week James had brought Gollum home, the feline had never had litter box issues.

Drifting from room to room, James finally found Gollum in the basement—which also doubled as an office space—lying on the desk chair.

“What’s gotten into you, you little menace?” he asked, crouching beside the cat. Gollum didn’t react, making James’s heart lurch. “Gollum?”

He reached out and rested his hand on the cat’s side. Gollum let out a noise between a chirp and a growl.

“Thought you were dead for a minute. What on Earth is your problem, buddy? Are you not feeling well? Is the litter box not clean enough for you? Are you trying to make my shitty day even more shitty?” James sighed, and stroked the top of Gollum’s head. “I’ll call the vet when they open. In the meantime, try not to wee on anything else, yeah?”

Gollum huffed out a breath, then closed his eyes again, drifting off to sleep.

The rest of the night passed listlessly for James. When he wasn’t switching over laundry, he worked on cleaning his house from top to bottom. Anything to keep his mind busy and away from Rose, because otherwise all he could think about was the way he’d raised his voice and talked over her, the way he’d suggested she wasn’t as invested in their relationship as he was, the way she’d sobbed and hugged herself and flinched away from him. And all of that was something he definitely didn’t want to think about.

The sky was beginning to lighten in the distant horizon by the time he’d finished. His house was immaculate. There was not a scrap of unclean fabric anywhere, what with him moving on to washing his clothes and the various towels and blankets strewn around his home.

His eyes burned with exhaustion, and he thought he might be able to get some sleep. He preemptively filled his cats’ food dishes so that they wouldn’t barge into his room in an hour to demand breakfast, then he went into his bedroom and crawled beneath his sheets. Before settling in to try to sleep, he shot off a series of short emails to his various professors, letting them know he wouldn’t be in class that day, and he would arrange with some of his classmates to get their notes. That task finished, James silenced his phone and set it on the nightstand, then tugged his sheets up to his ears.

He hadn’t realized that his bed had begun to smell like Rose until he was surrounded by the scent of laundry detergent rather than her subtle floral aroma. With an intensity that stole his breath away, he was aware of how much he missed Rose. Missing her hurt almost as much as their fight did, because despite everything that had happened, he remained desperately in love with her. He knew that he would do just about anything to try to make things right with Rose, if she would let him. He hoped she would.

That train of thought kept him from getting much sleep. His mind kept replaying their argument over and over again, and it kept coming up with new rebuttals and explanations he wished he could have said instead of losing his temper.

It was ten o’clock by the time James gave up on the idea of getting any more rest. He felt worse now than he had when he’d collapsed into bed four hours ago. Bleary-eyed, James stumbled to the kitchen to begin a pot of coffee. While it brewed, he went to check on Gollum. His food dish beneath his cat tree was full, and the cat himself had barely moved from his position on the office chair.

“All right, bud. Vet time,” James murmured, stroking Gollum’s forehead and cheeks.

He went back upstairs for his phone, and placed a call to the veterinarian’s office. There were no available in-person appointments, but they told James he could drop the cat off with them and they would take some blood and urine samples from Gollum throughout the course of the day.

James didn’t feel particularly good about dropping his sick cat off and leaving him alone, but the alternative was waiting a few days for an open appointment. He thanked the vet tech and said he would be by with his cat within the hour.

With a sigh, James pulled on some clothes, poured coffee into a travel thermos, and managed to get Gollum into his carrier with minimal fuss. Gollum loathed being in a car carrier, and often yowled and growled for the entire duration until he was set free again; the fact that he remained utterly silent and unmoving was testament to the fact he felt poorly.

The drive to the vet’s clinic was unremarkable, as was the transfer of his cat into their care. He confirmed his contact information, and thanked them for being able to take Gollum so quickly.

Since he was already out and about, James stopped by a nearby Walmart for his monthly supply run. He hadn’t thought to bring a list along on what he had assumed would be a quick stop at the vet’s, so he tried his best to remember everything he needed.

He was about to head to the front registers when a display of vibrant colors caught his eye. Paint swatches.

Hmm. Been meaning to repaint my bedroom.

Pulling his shopping cart to the side, James grabbed a booklet and began leafing through for some palette ideas. Currently, his walls were boring off-white, which hadn’t really bothered him before. He always assumed he would eventually get around to repainting, but after nearly two years of living there, everything was the same as when he’d moved in.

No time like the present.

He spent the next half hour poring over paint colors and mentally mapping the colors onto his bedroom walls. He frequently found himself wondering whether Rose would like a certain color, before he shut down that train of thought; it always came back, though. For the past several months, Rose was never more than half a thought away. Despite their current situation, that was a hard habit to break.

In the end, he decided on an eggshell-finish steel blue color that could have passed for gray. A nice, cool, neutral shade (and, despite his best efforts, he was sure Rose would like it too). He added a soft white for his ceiling and a sharp white glossy paint to his order to touch up the trim and crown molding. With his new paint cans in tow, he moved to the next aisle for paint rollers and brushes, protective cloth canvas, tape, a paint tray, and any other painting accoutrements he could find.

On his way home, he stopped by a fast-food drive-thru for a burger and an order of fries. His cholesterol was probably not pleased with him, considering he’d eaten a cheesesteak and fries for dinner the night before, but he ultimately decided to hell with his cholesterol.

It was noontime when he finished his lunch, and he hopped right in with his painting project. It took him an hour to move all of his furniture to the middle of the room, and to unhang the various decorations on his walls. Not sure how long the painting would take, James shifted his entire dresser into his spare bedroom, where he figured he would sleep for the next night or two until the project was finished.

The soothing, repetitive movements of painting were cathartic, which is more than James could have hoped for. It took a fair amount of concentration, especially to make sure he didn’t drip paint where it didn’t belong. He enjoyed cutting in the corners and edges of his walls using one of the small brushes he’d bought, but he didn’t like using the broad paint roller to cover large areas. That was an easy and mindless task, which meant his brain could go back to Rose. And that was definitely not where he wanted his brain to go.

How much longer would his memory replay their fight for him? How long would it take before he stopped thinking about everything he could have and should have said differently? And how long was this break of theirs going to last?

Several times, he had been tempted to take photographs of his bedroom and send them to Rose. A tiny little olive branch, maybe. But no, that was stupid. That would look like he didn’t care about or didn’t want to address their fight.

He still took photos, though, wanting a before and after comparison for his own memories.

He was about to move on to the last wall of his bedroom when the vet called with an update on Gollum. When his phone had rung, his heart had jumped into his throat; he hadn’t been sure whether he was hoping or dreading to see Rose’s name. The crushing disappointment he felt gave him his answer. It took everything he had to not dismiss the call and instead phone Rose, desperate to speak with her and start mending whatever broke between them.

However, he had a duty to his cat, and so he accepted the vet’s call. Gollum, it turned out, had a rather severe urinary tract infection. The vet wanted to keep him overnight to start him on an aggressive antibacterial regimen, and to give him intravenous fluids because the cat was dangerously dehydrated.

The guilt nearly overwhelmed James. He hadn’t realized Gollum hadn’t been drinking or acting any differently; if the cat hadn’t wee’d on the beds, James wouldn’t have known anything was wrong. The vet tech, seeming to sense his distress, assured him that UTIs could frequently get overlooked, but that Gollum should make a full recovery.

“We anticipate you’ll be able to pick him up in a day or two.”

“Great, thanks,” James breathed. “Really. Thanks so much.”

The call reminded him it was time to feed his other cats. He had shut them away into the basement to keep them from wandering into his bedroom while he painted. As he walked down the hall, he could hear Pippin crying and scratching at the door.

“Sorry, sorry,” he called through the door. “One minute, boys. One minute, then I’ll bring down your dindin.”

He grabbed the two empty food dishes in the kitchen, filled them with kibble, grabbed a water bottle out of the fridge, and opened the basement door. Pippin bolted upstairs and sprinted directly to where his bowl usually sat. He froze when he saw it wasn’t there, and James couldn’t help but laugh at him.

“Right here, bud,” James said, shaking the bowl. “C’mon. You’re dining in the basement tonight, and tomorrow. Until I’ve finished painting. I absolutely do not trust you to not brush up against the wet walls, and I don’t fancy washing paint off of you.”

James continued talking to his cats as he carefully walked down the steps, wary of Pippin and Merry who both were winding around his ankles. Wouldn’t that just be the perfect ending to the past twenty-four hours? His relationship with Rose had crashed and burned, then he went and broke his neck falling down the stairs.

Once the cats were happily eating their dinner, James returned to his bedroom and worked on finishing what he could. He worked diligently until nightfall, pleased with his progress and with how well the color looked. However, he was growing to realize that the warm brown wood of his dresser, nightstand, and bookcases didn’t match with the cooler tones of the room.

Well, he’d been planning to upgrade his furniture anyway from the inexpensive mishmash of pieces he’d found at second-hand shops. Figuring he was done for the night, James set up a rotating fan to help with air circulation then went into his bathroom for a shower. Paint flecks spattered his face, hair, and arms; it took quite a bit of vigorous scrubbing before he was satisfied he’d washed it all off.

Once he was clean, dried, and dressed in pajamas, he exited his bedroom and closed the door behind himself so that he could release his cats from their basement prison. Not particularly hungry but figuring he ought to eat, he cut up an apple and scooped a dollop of peanut butter onto a plate, then took it and his laptop to his couch. Aching and exhausted, James simply sat on his sofa with his head tilted back and his eyes shut.

He nearly dozed off until Pippin clumsily jumped into his lap, nearly upending James’s snack.

“Shoo,” James grumbled, moving his cat to the sofa cushion beside him.

Pippin huffed, then walked in a circle half a dozen times before plopping right next to James’s thigh. Absently stroking his cat, James munched on his pitiful dinner and opened up his laptop to IKEA’s website.

He spent the next hour browsing new bedroom furniture. With the light, cool-toned walls, he thought dark furniture would pop rather nicely. He fell utterly in love with a curved, corner-unit bookcase, and with a long chest of drawers that could fit enough clothes for two people. He favorited both of those pieces of furniture as he wondered what to do with his current furniture. Some of it could be repurposed to other rooms in his house, but others, like his bed frame—if he decided to upgrade that as well—would have to be sold or donated.

The ring of his doorbell interrupted his mental reconfiguration of his home. He leapt to his feet and jogged to his front door, cautiously peering into the peephole to see who was visiting him so late at night. A tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed man had his face pressed close to the door, as though he could look through the opposite end of the peephole.

James threw open the door. “Jack? What the hell are you doing here?”

The other man scanned his eyes up and down James’s body, taking in the pajamas and his damp, messy hair. A salacious grin crossed Jack’s face.

“Oops, I didn’t interrupt anything important, did I?”

It took James a few seconds to realize what Jack meant. Then he wondered why Jack would think he and Rose had been in the middle of having sex. Eventually he remembered that nobody else was aware that he and Rose were in the middle of an argument. Which made him remember that he and Rose were in the middle of an argument. His mood soured, and he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“What do you want, Jack?”

Jack simply stared at him for a beat before saying, “It’s Thursday.”

James’s stomach sank. Thursday… pub quiz night… shit.

“We didn’t see you at Molly’s, and none of us had heard from you. I thought maybe you were busy with Rose, caught up in all sorts of delicious debauchery that I would love to hear about. But you don’t exactly seem to be in a state of post-coital bliss, so…”

“What do you want, Jack?” James repeated, gritting his teeth. His sleepless night had finally caught up with him, and he was suddenly exhausted. His body felt leaden and his head began to ache. The last thing he wanted to do was stand in his doorway and have this conversation with his friend/ex-boyfriend.

Jack scrutinized him so intently that James had to fight the urge to slam the door in Jack’s face.

“What’s up with you?”

“None of your bloody business,” James snapped. “Look, it’s late. Sorry I missed trivia night. I’ll be there next week. But if you wouldn’t mind…”

In a move James was not anticipating, Jack stepped forward and into James, startling him into backing up a step. Before he knew it, they were inside his house, and Jack had shut the door behind him.

“What the hell Jack?” James exploded. “I’m not in the bloody mood for this. Get out.”

“Spill. What’s happened?” Jack asked. Before James could shout at him again, he turned his head down the hall, sniffing. “Are you getting your house repainted?”

“Jack!” James followed uselessly as Jack strode down the hall to his closed bedroom door.

The other man threw open the door and flicked on the lights, revealing the messy, freshly-painted bedroom.

“Yes, I’m repainting my bedroom. Congratulations on your deductive reasoning skills. Will you please leave now?”

“Is there a reason you’ve started repainting your room on a random Thursday? That sounds like more of a weekend project.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I was out shopping and saw paint swatches and had the urge to repaint my bedroom. So here we are.”

“Why were you out shopping and looking at paint swatches in the middle of a school day? Play hooky, did you? You know, whenever I blow off classes for the day, it’s usually because I’m having sex. Was Rose too busy? Or have you worn her out already?”

James’s cheeks burned, even as his chest crumpled in on itself. He had done his best to not think about Rose all afternoon, yet here was Jack, bringing her up every other sentence.

“Well, at least I can finally say I got you in the bedroom,” Jack said lightly, digging his elbow into James’s ribs.

James managed a weak, half-hearted snort. “Not quite how you expected it though, is it?”

“Admittedly, we were both a lot more naked,” Jack lamented. “I’ll let you save the nakedness for Rose. Speaking of, what does she think of your sudden home makeover?”

James’s stomach hollowed out, and he surprised himself by confessing, “Dunno. Haven’t told her.”

Jack went silent for the first time all night. James could feel his friend’s eyes on him, but he steadfastly inspected his walls, looking for any imperfections he would have to pay close attention to when he applied the second coat.

“James, what happened?”

Jack’s voice was so soft and so knowing that the backs of James’s eyes prickled. Damn. He thought he was done crying. James sighed and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“I think… I think Rose and I might be breaking up soon,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Jack simply blinked at him, his face expressionless. “Right. We’re gonna get some alcohol, then you are going to explain everything to me. Why do you think you and Rose are breaking up? You two are the epitome of soulmates, if such a thing exists.”

James snorted, remembering every hurtful thing he and Rose had said last night. “Not anymore, we’re not.”

Jack clapped him lightly on the back, before he encircled his arm around his shoulders and gave him a squeeze. “Let’s go sit down.”

Keeping his arm where it was, Jack guided James to the kitchen and plopped him into the chair that Rose usually sat in. James didn’t bother moving, and instead watched his friend go to the fridge and pull out a partially-drunk bottle of wine. He and Rose had opened that bottle last weekend. They’d snuggled on the sofa together and made a drinking game out of watching a cooking show together. Half way through the bottle, they’d gotten pleasantly tipsy and had stopped paying attention to the television in favor of making out.

Jack found the cabinet that contained the wine glasses and pulled down two of them. He sat at the table opposite of James, filled the glasses, and pushed one towards him. James gulped down half of it in one go.

“Okay. Tell me everything,” Jack said, topping off James’s wine glass.

The words poured out of him, from every heartbreaking thing Rose had told him, to everything he had said in return. Jack’s face remained impassive as James spoke, never once interrupting, even though James wasn’t sure he managed to capture all of the details as clearly as he would have preferred.

“I’ve ruined everything,” James concluded, polishing off the liquid in his glass before refilling it.

“No, you haven’t,” Jack said gently. “You buggered it up a little bit. But so did Rose. You brought up some valid points, James. You deserve to be in a relationship with someone who is honest and forthcoming. It isn’t a good balance for one person to constantly be sharing while the other remains a closed book. However, it’s not healthy to expect the same level of reciprocity from Rose as what you bring to the table. Especially when you haven’t been upfront with Rose about your expectations. And where you did bugger things up was with shooting yourself down so hard. Especially as a way to excuse what you’ve said, or assumptions you’ve made.”

“But… I genuinely feel like I’m at a complete and utter loss all the time,” James defended, ringing his fingertip around his wine glass. “It’s like… it’s like people innately know how to do this, this romance thing, and I’m bumbling along like an idiot.”

“Were you insecure in your friendship with Rose? Before you began dating? Did you feel any of this last semester?”

James paused, considering. He’d always had some butterflies when he spent time with Rose last semester, but for the most part, he’d simply enjoyed being in her presence. That hadn’t changed at all, despite their new relationship status. She had remained his best friend, the person he always wanted to be around, and the person he wanted to share every piece of his life with.

“No,” he whispered, pressing his fingertips into his eyes.

“Soooo… what’s the difference between being Rose’s friend versus being her boyfriend? I mean, I assume by now that you’re having sex? Apart from that, it’s not like anything really changed. Is the sex bad or something? Do you not like it?”

James felt his cheeks heating as his stomach twisted. Being intimate with Rose was one of the most special things he’d ever shared with someone. Not only did it feel brilliant, better than he ever thought physical pleasure could be, but it was equally as emotionally satisfying. Being vulnerable with Rose hadn’t been terrifying or overwhelming, but rather comforting. There had been nobody he trusted more than Rose.

“No,” he croaked. “No, it’s been… it’s been incredible. Everything with her has been incredible.”

“Has Rose given any indication that she has been dissatisfied with you in any way? Not even with the sex, but just…” Jack waved his hands around in the air. “…in general?”

You’re everything I never thought I deserved to have.

Hot tears burned in his eyes then dripped down his cheeks. Every kiss she’d given him, every squeeze of her hand in his, every sleepy smile that spread across her face when she woke up and saw him… It all raced through his head, a testament to their love.

What have I done?

He pressed his palms into his eyes

“No,” he answered, his voice raw.

Jack sighed. “Oh, James.”

“I know!” He plonked his forehead down onto the table and curled his arms around his head, tugging on his hair until it hurt. “I fucked up, Jack.”

James heard the scraping of chair legs on the floor, then a warm body was pressed tightly into his own. Jack wrapped his arm around James’s shoulders, leaning into him in a sideways hug.

“Much like having sex,” Jack began, “having an argument takes more than one person. Most times, anyway. If either situation is being done by only one person, chances are they’re a wanker.”

James let out a weak laugh, even as his eyes and throat burned with more tears.

“Rose said some very hurtful things,” Jack said, rubbing his hand soothingly up and down James’s arm. “She needs to apologize and address those. But you accused her of some pretty terrible things, too. From what you’ve said, Rose’s relationship with this Jimmy guy was toxic, if not abusive. It’s insulting for you to suggest she would want to go back into a relationship like that.”

James’s stomach ached. He had known for months that Rose’s relationship with Jimmy had been unhealthy, and that her heart had been badly broken. That should have been enough for him. Did he really need to know every single detail of her heartbreak?

No, he decided. No, he didn’t. However, he would have liked to have known that Jimmy had reached out to her. At the very least, James wanted to know why Rose hadn’t wanted to tell him Jimmy had contacted her.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he admitted.

“At least you know you want to fix it,” Jack said, giving James a squeeze. “That’s a good start. It means you’ve determined that what you have with Rose is worth fighting for. But you need to take a long, hard look at what you want from this relationship, and more importantly, what you want from Rose. And you need to be receptive to what she wants from you and your relationship. And you need to work on your own insecurities and stop projecting them onto Rose. That’s a shitty thing to do, James. You have the insecurities, so it’s your job to work through them. Stop making excuses for yourself, and stop projecting them onto Rose.”

“Not sugar coating this at all, are you?” James muttered, though he knew Jack’s advice was sound.

“Nope. I’ve let you mope for a half hour, but now you need to start making things right. And remember. You can only change yourself—you can’t change Rose. So decide what you’re willing to put up with, because she might never be as open as you want her to be. But also set some boundaries for yourself. A relationship is give and take, and lots of compromise. You can’t keep giving and giving and giving, or else you’re not going to have anything left.”

James cocked his head to the side and peeked up at Jack. “Do you have a degree in relationship counseling that I don’t know about?”

Jack laughed, and took his arm away from James’s shoulders to instead ruffle his hair. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“But how do I start a conversation with Rose to tell her I want to fix things?” James asked.

Jack pursed his lips and tapped his finger to his chin in mock thought. “Have you considered anything like “Hi Rose, I really want to make up and then make out”?”

James snorted. “I’ll think of something else. Oh, and I might have some furniture coming tomorrow or Saturday. Wanna help me move stuff?”

Jack winked. “You know, I think I’m busy. Why don’t you see if Rose is free?”

“Subtle,” James drawled. He then sighed. “Thanks for stopping by, Jack.”

“See, aren’t you glad I wasn’t put off by your less-than-warm welcome? If you want to practice your apology skills, I’ll take one.”

“Okay, I think it’s time we said goodbye,” James said, dragging his weary body up from the chair. He collected their empty wine glasses and set them in the sink.

“A piece of advice, don’t try that one with Rose. Maybe try a kiss or two. I’ll take one of those, if you’re offering.”

James rolled his eyes and lightly shoved his friend out of the kitchen. They’d only made it a few steps when the doorbell rang.

“Bit late for a social call, isn’t it?” Jack asked, frowning at James.

James gestured up and down the length of Jack’s body. “You can talk, showing up here at nine o’clock.”

“Touché. Late-night furniture delivery?”

“I haven’t ordered anything yet. Besides, no one would deliver this late.”

Shrugging, James stepped ahead of his friend to yank open the front door. His breath left him in a sharp, little whoosh when he beheld the person standing in the yellow glow of the porch light, cradling a small, plastic container to her stomach.

“Rose.”

#ficandchips #dwfic #doctorroseprompts #doctor who #ten x rose #ten x rose au #james x rose #university au #angst #romance #my fic #chemical reaction #catalysis series #chemical potential sequel

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ndrv3winterexchange · 7 years ago

Text

Gift from Mistropolis to idaate

Hello @idaate!! Your long time question is finally answered… I’m your Secret Santa!! Remember you said you literally just asked for angst??? Big mistake, because you enabled me to write this. Enjoy eating your heart out.

“Ouma, did you do the laundry yet?”

Ouma taps down on the ‘grab’ button on the screen, watching as the virtual claw plunges down into the piles of toys lying inside. Amidst the cluster of normal-rated toy-carrying eggs, the claw establishes a tight grip on the Rare egg. Ouma heaves a big sigh.

“Hey, small dick! Uglyrumi asked you a question!”

“Oh, they are in, somewhere over the rainbow!” Ouma replies without once moving his eyes away from the screen of his phone. The egg has a soft vibration to it as the timer goes down, 13 minutes to 12 minutes to 11 minutes.

Toujou neither sighs nor carries out any action expressing dissatisfaction. Or if she is, Ouma can’t see it, for his eyes remain glued to the slight bouncing motion of the egg. The timer is clocked at 9 minutes now.

“Dickichi, you ever thought of doing anything productive around the house or what?” Iruma shoots Ouma a death glare from across the couch. Unlike Ouma’s small phone, Iruma carries a pretty big laptop on which she is apparently trying to crack a code on.

“Doing anything productive like you talking with Kiibaby twenty-four seven?”

Iruma’s instantly rouge-tinted cheeks give Ouma a chuckle. “Kiibo is our only connection with Team Danganronpa, remember? It’s going to the infirmary ourselves, or asking Kiibo to tell us.”

“Oh, since you are so invested in our fake classmates’ health status, I guess you’re just lazing around instead of being productive too, aren’t you?”

“Say that all you like, Dickichi,” Iruma scrolls through something on the pad, lips tugged downwards and even more impossibly furious. “we all know you are worried for Stupidhara and your worry is oh-so-thinly veiled.”

The egg on the screen is now bouncing up and down, waiting to hatch as soon as Ouma taps on it.

Ouma turns off the phone and throws it across the room.

“Tch, Idiotma, there’s no need to get that pissy now…” Iruma closes the laptop and clutches it tight to her chest. If Kiibo can have an audio outlet in that laptop, he might have protested about the situation. “I mean… It’s not like he won’t—”

“Of course I know that you, stupid bitch! Iruma-chan continues to be as dumb as ever even after the simulation. I’m so sorry for your parents!” Ouma springs up from the couch and retrieves the phone. He turns it on again. Apparently, there are no bugs or other issues, but the egg is already open and the pop-up gone.

“Wow! I got a really shitty toy this time. It looks so ugly that I had to throw my phone away on impulse!” Ouma mashes the phone to Iruma’s cheeks, and Iruma swats him away. Ouma giggles. “Hey! Come to think about it, it looks just as ugly as you!”

“Hey! I’m just pointing out a fact, fucker. At least stop pestering me about it!”

Ouma blanches, eyes turning dull as they focus on Iruma’s. “Then why don’t you fuck off and leave me alone too?”

Then Ouma resumes his toy-hunting back on his couch, and Iruma leaves the room hurriedly.

Ouma opens the collection and looks for the new toy. It is a chessboard with a lazily-painted smile on it.

Ouma throws his phone into the rubbish bin properly this time.

⁕

Iruma stops hogging the laptop to herself and plugs up an audio program to let Kiibo vocalize his thoughts. That’s about the only two good things Iruma have done for everyone so far.

To be fair, Ouma has done none. And never will.

“Hello guys! It’s been such a long time since we have convened!” Kiibo’s floating head, or more precisely-speaking, the pixelated image of it, flies around the screen against a blue backdrop.

Ouma scoops another spoonful of cookie and cream ice cream into his mouth. “Last you have convened with us is with Iruma-chan here though, isn’t it?”

“But this is the first time I can talk to you guys instead of just Iruma-san! It is, after all, rather difficult to establish contact in the first place when they have tight surveillance and can cut me if they… Well, but that’s beside the point!” A task window opens in the corner and starts loading, until it divides into four sections, each a birds-eye-view of a locked, private patient room.

All of the walls contain the bloodless white of a regular plain wall, but you could almost imagine the pink bloodstains the walls would have when you saw the patients’—classmates’—violent struggles against their personally hired caretakers.

(your blood is red, like a real human’s)

“Um, Kiibo, I didn’t tell you to show us… Them?” Iruma closes the window. Ouma swears he can hear a peal of laughter before it closes completely. The kind of maniacal laughter that precedes regretful wails.

Kiibo immediately blanches (as much as a robot’s avatar can). “M—my apologies. It is rather hard to remember everyone’s requests. Even not taking that into accounts… No one would have wanted to see that. I truly am sorry for doing so.”

“Oh Kiibaby, if your so-called apologies drill on and on mushrooms will start growing in my ears before we know anything! How horrible of you to want mushrooms to attach to my body!” To add to the punch of his statement, Ouma starts digging his nails into his ears and gasping out (rather dramatically) at the pain.

“That’s a lie! But please if you keep doing that your ears will… Anyway, let me search up the feeds.” Kiibo opens a different task window that has runs through hundreds of items rapidly. Gradually the list stops scrolling and an arrow appears, pointing at one specific item, underlined in red.

survivor-saiharashuuichi

“Kiibo-san, if you don’t mind me asking, how do we know for sure that this is a live feed and not a version that the Team plugged up in order to fool us? Or a past version and such?” Toujou’s equivocal eyes are not doing any favour for Ouma’s stomach and neither is her finger poised to click down on the ‘confirmation’ button.

“It is. I am very sure of it since my network is no longer connected to them, this is definitely live from where it comes from.”

“Okay… Then.” Toujou presses down on the button.

Ouma reaches for his phone. Before remembering that his phone is now in the rubbish bin. He gets off the sofa and walks towards the bin to retrieve it.

“Hey… It’s okay if you don’t really want to—”

“I don’t know what Mama is talking about! Of course I am!”

Ouma launches his face right into the screen of the laptop, expecting animalistic screams to assault his ears and making them bleed.

Only to be met with silence.

Ouma steps back and takes a real look at the screen.

There Saihara is, still asleep, face still attached to the oxygen mask and arms still having IV drips into them.

(still locked in the glass coffin he doesn’t deserve to be in)

“So. He’s still not awake?” Toujou shoves Ouma aside to look at the screen closer herself. “Didn’t the Team’s medical team said that most survivors only need a few weeks to recover at most? What is the meaning of this?”

“Well, obviously that means they are still full of chickenshit and Dickichi’s precious prince isn’t waking up anytime soon!” Iruma slams down the laptop—as Ouma had guessed, Kiibo did let out a sound of protest—and shoves it back into the carrying bag. “Get on with your stupid lives now bitches! Kiibo will meetcha in, like, two weeks’ time.”

“Iruma-san, do you mean that Kiibo-san can’t talk to us anytime we like? Or is there any other technical reason?”

“Take it as both, Slutjou. Kiibo and I don’t have the whole fucking day even when we are roommates.” Iruma takes up the bag and rushes for the door, disappearing in no time.

Ouma boots up the phone and opens the toy-collecting game.

Toujou moves back to the laundry she was tending to. “Ouma-kun?”

“There there, Mama, I already know what to expect, there’s absolutely no need to console me or anything! I know that’s gonna happen and it’s not like I really care or anything, y’know?” Ouma puts down the phone on the table and gets into the pantry for a bag of chips. He takes the garlic flavour, and Toujou, predictably, frowns in an obviously unsubtle manner.

Getting Toujou to frown in contrast to her in-game ability to disagree while agreeing would have been satisfying, if not for the fact that Toujou no longer possesses the full arsenal of the Super High School Level Maid’s tactful proficiency. Doing so doesn’t warrant much effort at all, but seeing Toujou ticked-off by his own hand carries a deeply rewarding sensation.

“Anyway, Ouma-kun, I hope what you said it’s true. For now, I have to head out for the day. Please don’t eat all of the chips.”

“Most certainly, Toujou-chan!”

Toujou strolls out of the room, out of the house, and out of Ouma’s mind. Ouma brings the bag of chips and phone with him to his bedroom, where he lies down and stuffs himself more while waiting for yet another egg to hatch.

Bits of chips fall down and adorn the floor in a pattern that would most certainly tick both Iruma and Toujou off to no end. Getting bored of the game, Ouma opens up an Internet browser.

He turns off the filter function and opens up a search engine.

It only takes the letter ‘s’ to bring up a menu of pain to him.

saihara shuuichi alive? — saihara shuuichi is actually dead conspiracy — saihara shuuichi cheats — saihara shuuichi hat merch

Ouma chances clicking on one that is just ‘saihara shuuichi” and millions of search results sprout from the ground, like a dodder that just found its prey, where Ouma is the healthy tree that it wraps around with. Is he even healthy in the first place? Backtrack; more like the dying tree that the dodders are dead set to consume to the fullest.

Ouma snickerrs at that thought.

He presses down onto the fan forum he had an account in and looks into the ‘Daily Saihara Shuuichi Love Thread’.

Day 389 – I still really really love Saihara Shuuichi! Have you seen that boy’s smile? It can cure depression! At least it definitely can for me!

Ouma presses his lips into a tight fault line and down the checker-patterned keyboard.

oh u again??? don’t u ever get bored of this???

A reply pops back up immediately.

Why does doing that bother you??? Everyone in the game gets a thread like that! I feel like making one for the protag, in particular, shouldn’t be weird!

Ouma continues the game and advances onto the chessboard upon typing a few more black keys.

it is weird dood. cmon think abt it saihara is the only one still not awake why would u still maintain this thread it’s not like he’ll wake up and suck ur dick lol

The anonymous, non-existent opponent of his stands his ground with his white pieces.

Get back into your own cave you fucking troll!!! And whether or not I treat Saihara as my dearly beloved is not your business lmao are you jealous of what I have with him???

lmao ofc i won’t be interested in whatever imaginary thing u have w/ him!!!! i’m just sad that ur this pathetic

Ouma bites back expletives and curses that would poison even the clearest well of water, forcing himself to breathe and keep calm properly.

The chain of replies suddenly break.

i mean whatev ur thinking they are fake dood!! the thread is lit made 10 days ago i watched u make it and start on day 289!! why the fuck u lyin why u always lyin

As the moderator of the thread, Ouma reserves the right to delete messages when he needs to. Usually, he challenges himself to just dissuade trolls like he had just now, but it looks like even the Internet folks don’t approve of his love, after all.

Ouma deletes all the messages back up to “Day 389” and contents himself that this small space still exists, and whether this exists in the void or not it still brings him small relief.

⁕

“Slutjou, is bringing him out with us really a good idea?” Iruma scrunches up her nose and holds back a sneeze. “I mean, God why the fuck would he wear so much fucking perfume! We have enough camouflage materials that are not stupid like perfumes!”

“Hey, Hyena-chan, you do realize I have ears and can hear you, right?” Ouma circles back to Iruma’s side and fake-pounds onto her chest. Iruma lets out a shrill scream, not unlike that of a fire siren. “Nyaaa, Hyena-chan is so loud and rude to me! Mama, what should I do?”

“Ouma-kun, we shouldn’t be making too much noise out here.” Toujou looks forward with remotely no changes in her expression at all. She almost resembles a bit of her older maid self. “Today we are going to have some kind of fun without the burden of our classmates still on our backs.”

“Clever of you to immediately bring them up, Kill-me-san,” Iruma takes out her phone and scrolls up the searches she has done prior to coming out. “There’s a flea market around the corner. Anyone interested?”

Ouma unwraps the end of his scarf and mock slaps Iruma with them. “Why would you bring it up if you weren’t thinking of going?”

“Your astute observations are duly noted and absolutely with no fuck given on it.” Iruma struggles to swat the heavily perfumed scarf away from her face and soldiers into the sea of faceless people. “I’m heading in myself, see ya fucks later.”

Toujou and Ouma, by contrast, are keeping themselves to the sidewalk, where fewer people amble on. The flea market might have more confections and delicacies anyone could obtain if they so desire, but the sidewalk is the only passageway with a more reasonable amount of flow of people.

“Ouma-kun, is there any particular candy you are eyeing for?”

“Candy? How old am I, Toujou-chan? You think some candies can appease my demons and all that? Hmm?” Ouma opens the doors into the small shopping mall nonchalantly, greeting the somewhat festive interior with a bright smile. In the time Toujou has spent with Ouma, it is already obvious that this is not a genuine smile.

“Then is there anything in particular that you want to get?”

“Hmm, these mistletoes look really torn… Must be old ones just being recycled yet again!”

“Contrary to popular belief, we don’t really have much time to be out for that long—”

“Annnnd that doll just looks so ugly! Why did they even put it out—”

“Ouma.”

Toujou stops walking with a telltale clink onto the ground with her heel. Ouma comes to a halt.

“I know you’re heading for the boutique around the corner and I advise strongly against that idea.”

The silence hangs heavy with a palpable tension, one that is not too disparate to that of when Ouma had first woken up. The faux cheerful background music of the mall drones on and on about the miracle of love.

“It’s just one visit, Toujou. It’s not a big deal.”

(The only other occasion to when Ouma dropped his cutesy honorifics for everyone is when he woke up to a tangle of wires, liquid that he will come to repulse at the very sight of dribbling from his mouth and Toujou appearing in front of him helping him to get up)

“Ouma-kun… Despite everything you believe here, I still get to let you know, you can’t keep holding on forever. You still have a life to live.”

Ouma chuckles. His lips seal in a poisonous excursus. “I know that Toujou-chan, and that is the precise reason for why I’m going to get into that boutique and buy the cutest clothes I can find there!”

Toujou’s shoulders tense, a veneer superimposing her exasperation and anger. It must be anger. Ouma sees it too many times to not know the shape of anger and its shadow behind people’s eyes. He prepares himself as well, small frame coiling into a snake ready to bite and tear.

And that’s why Toujou acquiescing with a respire switches off Ouma’s flight-or-flight mode. “Alright, Ouma. Let’s head to that store and gets you some nice and comfy clothes.”

Ouma resists the urge to dissolve right there and bounces up on his heels. “Yes! Let’s go!”

The store greets the two of them with a nice chime completely deviating from the jingle the mall itself uses. The interior is encased in a candy-like decor that embellishes the soft-colored clothes it contains, in hues of purple and pink mostly. Toujou can understand why Ouma seems to dig the aesthetics.

But instead of settling for the rows of soft dresses and sweaters at the front of the store, Ouma instantly scurries to the leftmost corner of the store, a section that is rather invisible to the eye of a mere passer-by.

Toujou follows Ouma deep into the rabbit hole and finds herself in front of a row of velvety black dresses she had once worn with pride.

“There! Aren’t these clothes just wicked, Toujou-chan?” Ouma all but bounces around and touches every single piece of clothing there. “It’s all the Danganronpa Season 53 merchandise! Or you could say, pieces of our pasts!”

“I know that Ouma-kun, why else do you think I will want to…” Toujou’s thoughts are lost in translation as she too, establishes contact with one of the dresses. She contemplates the fact that no one is yelling for them to stop or offers faux-enthusiastic attempts at selling the products, then surmises that it is best not to come up with theory as to why.

“Hey Toujou-chan, are you gonna buy one of these?”

“I. I don’t think I have brought enough for that.” Toujou takes out her wallet and counts two one-thousand notes. “I only have five hundred dollars.”

Ouma narrows his eyes at Toujou then, something almost resembling joy radiating from him. Aureate, but stilted joy. “That’s up to you then! But for me, I’m going to buy a set myself!”

Ouma takes a set of pre-packed clothes (pre-packed? Huh?) and pays for it, promptly walking towards the fitting room.

Toujou swallows involuntarily. The so-called cozy atmosphere of the store is not helping.

A few minutes later, Ouma emerges,

in Saihara’s detective wear and hat.

“Toujou-chan! Do I look good in my beloved’s clothes?”

Toujou surveys this Ouma. She knows the Ouma in front of her has not changed in the slightest. And yet. And yet.

“You… Do look nice.” Toujou dances with the idea of praising Ouma’s new look and resisting gravitation towards the plan of tearing the clothes off him. The latter is coquettish and Toujou feels liable to capitulate to it, but she stands her ground. “They have a pretty good grasp on how to make the clothes, huh?”

“You think so, Toujou-chan? That I really look good in that?” Ouma ruffles the sleeves and plays with the hat, cavalier but almost with a latent astriction waiting to be released.

Toujou wonders why and gambles with a “yes?”

Ouma’s small frame folds in and releases in a strike.

“Well, it shouldn’t!”

Ouma’s fingers enclose seams along the fabric and apply pressure to them, and after a short respite, the fabric starts tearing into nothing. He rapidly tears off the buttons on the shirt and takes it off, along with the hat and the shorts. Before Toujou can gauge Ouma’s reactions further, the clothes are already semi-torn, pieces of the black fabric falling off and with Ouma turning on a lighter and—

“Ouma! No!”

Toujou wrestles the lighter away from Ouma quick enough, toppling Ouma headfirst onto the ground, into the suffocating clothes instead, and Toujou blows off the lighter.

Ouma lies on the heap, torso completely limb, face unidentifiable from being smashed into the clothes.

“Ouma-kun?”

Silence save for the sound of clothes ruffling and the boutique’s chime.

Then Ouma slowly gets himself back up again.

(Only physically and not metaphorically)

“Toujou-chan, now you’ve ruined my master plan of destroying the store!” Ouma kicks the clothes around, in a manner almost like a child throwing tantrums at the parents for not getting their favorite gifts. Or a circus tiger charging at its cage. “Now what am I supposed to do to look normal and walk out of the store alive and free!”

Toujou watches Ouma burying his face in his hands, tears streaming out from behind the gaps of his fingers. Fake crying. Real crying. That’s not something Toujou is in the position of understanding.

“… Hey, Ouma-kun? How about I buy you other clothes?”

Ouma ceases his kicking movements gradually upon hearing that, and he turns around, peeling his own hands off his face finger by finger. “Really?” He asks in the most thespian manner.

“Of course! I have five hundred on me, we can definitely buy something much nicer.” Toujou takes out the banknotes and flaunts them, and Ouma’s renewed smile solidifies. “Go pick what you want!”

“Yay! I know Mama is always the best and I was never wrong about that!” Ouma all but plucks the notes from Toujou’s fingers and runs off to the opposite side of the boutique.

Even when Ouma walks out afterward in the softest and most warmly-colored skirt and stockings and boots, Toujou knows all too well that the latent tautness of the thread linking his conscience and tenacity is slowly threatening to fracture, and this is one knowledge she is in a position to be sure of.

⁕

Iruma slurps up the instant noodles she bought from the flea market—Ouma heard that it’s flavored with something rare and unavailable in any other place, but who is he to know that—in an utterly swine-like and ravenous manner. Bits of the soup keep flying out of her mouth and Ouma tamps down the desire to outright beat the noodles out of her. “What are we watching on Christmas’ Eve?”

“That movie I watched back when I was a kid with the train to Santa Claus’ base of operations.” Iruma takes the remote control as she elucidates, the oil stains from the noodles spilling onto the remote control. Ouma recoils in horror. “It’s a fucking timeless classic and the only movie that yours truly can admit is good despite the utter lack of interesting action!”

“I wonder about your definitions of interesting, but I suppose I will keep quiet!” Ouma wrestles the remote control to him and switches the audio to Polish.

“None of us here know Polish!”

“You will understand it in time Iruma-chan! Even a dust-gathering brain like yours are capable of something eventually!”

“Knock it off now, let’s change it back.” Toujou effortlessly takes back the remote control and switches it back to Japanese. Ouma’s pout springs up on his face instantly. “Can’t we have some fun in this night at all!”

“You’re already having fun with those toy trains I gave you earlier, remember?” Iruma puts down the noodles and moves onto the bag of chips, pulling open it with chips flying everywhere and Toujou’s immediate scowl. “Sorry for that, Slutjou!”

“You will be sorry about that soon enough, Iruma-san,” Toujou comminates gently with the promise, then turns her focus back to the television. The hero boy is now standing hesitantly in front of the train conductor, who is quite ready and eager to leave him shall he not get up onto the train himself.

“Is this how you feel every time a boy tries to date you, abortion?”

“Tch, Iruma-chan underestimated my capacity of shame! I would do so much more! Like—”

“Um nope! Nobody here wants to hear about your nonexistent romantic life here.” Iruma grabs the remote and speeds to a different scene. Now the scene has shifted to when hero boy has to get hero girl’s ticket back to prove her innocence and right to board the train.

“And this is Iruma-chan as she hunts for an opportunity to be even more outrageously disgusting! Look at you go!”

“It is not and it sucks as a metaphor so it doesn’t coun—hey give back the chips!” Iruma makes a wild snatch for the bag while Ouma all but shoves every piece directly into his mouth. Iruma screams and gets up onto the table to obtain a better vantage point to grab back at Ouma. Ouma dodges at the last second with a giggle and the table slides off with a squealing Iruma falling onto the floor.

Toujou gets up and pauses the movie, a capitulator in a war that doesn’t involve her. “Do you ever think twice before deciding on an action?”

“Nope!” They singsong synchronously. Toujou sighs in an almost affectionate manner and starts sweeping away the bits of chips on the floor. “When I come back, at least be done with not killing each other, alright?”

“Maybe!” Ouma aims a bit onto Iruma’s face, and Iruma retaliates without missing a beat. They get bored by it quite quickly, however, so soon they settle back onto the sofa with something else for snacks, and into a rare, agreeable silence.

The silence lasts for some time before Iruma speaks up again. “This is my favorite part when I was a child, and it still is. Look at them!” She points at the hero boy who’s bequeathed with the bell from Santa Claus’ sleigh. “This is the kind of magic that you believe in.”

“Magic? Iruma-chan, I thought you aren’t Yumeno-chan! Are you taking over her role?”

“Jeez, Ouma, don’t you ever take anything seriously at all? Is nothing sacred to you?”

Ouma gives that a hard and good thought. Then he shakes his head.

“Tch. But then again, when you have lived through some bullshit like us, I guess it’s pretty hard to think of anything still as sacred, right?” Iruma redirects her attention to the screen, and now the hero boy is boarding the train back to his home when he found out that his bell is missing.

“So. What really happened to you when you found out this movie isn’t a reality?”

Iruma is silent for once. Ouma waits for a response that he knows very well won’t really come. Toujou, on the other hand, is tempted to break the metaphorical ice the question creates when Iruma suddenly bursts into tears.

“I know it isn’t real… Why else would I do something as stupid as joining Dan—” She grabs a tissue instead of finishing her sentence, harsh breaths expelled in snowflakes that taste of sorrow and penitence. Balls of tissue papers ornate the floor. “I have never… Look. Look I know the truth. I have never even watched this wretched movie. It isn’t me, it was the me in Danganronpa.”

The soft music of the credits underscores the roiling emotions of everyone present. Suddenly the movie is a much more preferable alternative to talking.

But an unspoken moxie takes roots in Ouma, and keeping on talking he must. “And is the you from Danganronpa worthless and means nothing to you?”

Iruma wipes her face harder, as if desperately wiping the smirk the SHSL Inventor wears on a daily basis would yield anything good for the situation. “Funny of you to say that, Ouma. Out of all of us, you have absolutely no change. Zero. Nil. Even Toujou over here loses her super capabilities in doing everything and yet you stay being the liar you always have been in the game.”

Iruma’s words aim a precise laceration on the surface of Ouma’s heart, and it bleeds and bleeds and bleeds more lies. “Iruma-chan, you’d be naive if you think all of me is still here with you.”

“Huh?”

“Because… The truth is… I came back with powers unbeknownst to mortals like you!” Ouma springs up onto the table and dives into Iruma with his hands outwards, and Iruma freezes on impulse and amplifies her whimpers. “I now possess the power of controlling your emotions! And I will use this power for evil! Be sad, you imbecilic temptress!”

“Ouma-kun, what even are you talking about at this poi—” Toujou gets up to interfere, but Ouma pauses right there, hands going limp and staring down at Iruma.

“Why do you have to hang onto me like a lifeline? What did I ever do?”

“What, what are you even talking about?” Iruma attempts to slither out of Ouma’s weight, her features increasingly contorted in confusion.

Ouma, on the other hand, gets up voluntarily and walks back to his room upstairs.

⁕

when ouma’s eyes fluttered open to the bleached white wall of the infirmary, paparazzi were surrounding him in every direction.

― ouma kokichi! you finally wake up! share with us how you feel?

ouma’s throat unfettered a few unintelligible notes into their mics, and the doctors on duty circumscribe him, blocking the paparazzi and stopping them from invading his space. ouma attempts again to talk, and it ends with throwing up onto the floor. at least the paparazzi recede at the sight of that.

― hey team danganronpa were you taking proper care with ouma ― is ouma kokichi-san going to be okay after all ― will they be present for the conference?

gradually security guards entered the scene and herded the thirsty news-hunters out of the infirmary, and a few doctors left with hushed instructions to one another. only one person remained after the tide of people abates from the room and ouma’s consciousness.

― alright, i’m here to gauge your necessity for a memory re-transfer.

shirogane, the blue devil herself, was standing over him, clutching a board with a passive look in her eyes. if not for the obvious eyebags she had and her moribund complexion, ouma would doubt that the game has any ramification on her.

― it’s really quite simple. all i need you to do here is to give me some responses to this survey i’m taking that will determine whether or not you want to get back your memories.

― my memories?

― trust me, this will only take a few minutes. question one, are you capable of thinking about the last seconds of your death?

― i do. but what does that have to do with—

― that’s good. question two, can you describe to details your personality during the game?

― tch… merciless, driven, cruel…

― yeah, that’s enough there to go for. question three, if you have the chance to choose…

shirogane finished asking her questions soon enough and promised to get back to him when the team had determined whether he get his memories back or not. before she could take her departure, however, ouma yelled for her to stop.

― wait! did you have your memories back?

― i don’t have any memories beyond being part of danganronpa, but thanks, the concern is touching.

― no i mean like—do you remember what happened in the game? are you, like, coping at all?

shirogane let out a cold chuckle.

― people like me don’t have any need to remember mundane things like that when i have more i need to do up ahead.

that was when ouma realized that he hasn’t been playing by the rules that shirogane established.

― nishishi, perhaps it’s just that shirogane-chan is too inane to understand my question!

― perhaps that is so! i am but a cosplayer, what do i know about the arts of lies?

― so! shirogane-chan, i think you’re doing just fine because you don’t remember anything about yourself just like the idiot you are! you stink as well! but is that a lie?

― i’m really flattered that you think so, ouma-kun! a mere intern like me needs to do so much more in order to advance in this industry, so it’s only natural that i have to give up my whole self for that! it’s just my passions! so, i do think you state something that is and is not a lie! i don’t remember anything, but i also remember everything! that was nice talking to you, but i gotta go now!

ouma struggled to get up before pain shot through his sternum and ribcage, a paroxysm throwing him into begrudging oscitancy. before shirogane truly leave, however, ouma managed to choke out words he intended to say.

― do i have a say in whether i want this or not?

shirogane pauses.

― are you this desperate to go back to your old self? then why did you join the show to begin wi—

― no. i don’t want any of my memories back. keep them or delete them, i don’t care. i don’t want to go back to my past.

shirogane does a double take.

― why not?

― just respect my wishes. let me keep this me intact.

shirogane blanches, but then a borderline cruel smile adorns her face.

― i see what it is! you’re afraid of going out of money and popularity, so you want to literally keep being this cash cow! very respectful wishes! i will pass them on!

then she truly leaves, taking ouma’s uncertain regrets with her.

⁕

Today is not going to be a good Christmas Day, Ouma surmises.

He is still in his pajamas at the current hour of twelve, when he realizes that he does not even feel like getting up or moving his limbs. Maybe he should stay in this bed forever until even his bones wither into dust. At least Iruma and Toujou will have one less person to worry about, if they ever worried about him.

Before this reverie relatively becomes true, however, Iruma barges in. “Ouma? You awake?”

“Yes, I’m awake, Iruma-chan, doesn’t erase the fact that my soul is still deep asleep in somewhere else!” Ouma reluctantly rolls off the bed and grabs his usual wear of sweater, expecting a crude smile and lewd words barraging from her mouth.

Iruma’s face is not painted with a smile. Rather, there is a vacant look with a latent sense of dread. “Follow me downstairs. Now.”

“What, I can’t even go brush my tee—” Ouma yelps as Iruma establishes an iron grip on his wrist, roughly dragging him with her. “We’re going downstairs right this fucking second, you shit.”

Ouma gulps down his renewed vexation and lets himself be dragged down, right into the hall where the television is located. Loud music blares from it, but that is the only precursor to the pivotal moment of this chapter of his short, nugatory life.

“Saihara Shuuichi is awake.”

⁕

They take slots for everyone who wants to visit Saihara, but Iruma and Toujou take the courtesy of visiting together so that one less slot is placed in front of Ouma.

“Iruma-chan, it is unwise of doing that when you definitely have so many raunchy and oh-so-romantic promises you have to make to the protagonist, right? Why don’t you go take back your slot?” Ouma unwraps one of the gift boxes below their Christmas tree and takes out a generic notebook. “Ha! Even though I have spent so much to buy you guys a gold-generating machine, this is how you guys treated me?”

“Ouma-kun, today is Christmas Day, let’s have the decency to be more honest and open.” Toujou chuckles, and Ouma hates that look in her eyes as if she is a mother watching her child grow up and find a partner. “We know you just bought a roomba for me, and a shampoo for Iruma-san. And the notebook has its crucial functions, trust us. We intend for you to take this to when you see Saihara-kun.”

“And then we make drawings and chat like some nine-year-old boys or something? And what makes you guys think I’m going?”

“Why won’t you go? Do you really not miss Stupidhara even once?”

The question pierces more than Ouma’s usual armor, so he pouts and stays quiet.

“That’s what I’m thinking. Now go prepare for a bit, our session should sometime after one thirty, so be sure you’re there at two.”

With that, Ouma is left alone in the house, feeling like the biggest idiot and asshole in the world.

“Tch… This is so fucking annoying.” Ouma takes one more bite of his toast and shoves everything into the fridge for later. Come to think about it, hasn’t it been some time since Toujou feels happy enough to make them breakfast? Is it just the charity spirit of Christmas Day, or is Saihara Shuuichi’s charm truly that powerful?

Ouma wishes he has requested Shirogane to fracture every single neuron in his head that contains memories of Saihara but well, life won’t ever go the way you want, huh?

You went to forget yourself.

I know.

Or at least, that’s what I’m going to assume, even into the graves.

Ouma takes a water bottle, a small gift, and packs them all into his backpack before gorging out on more rubbish instant noodles and gets on his way.

⁕

When he arrived at the hospital, the influx of reporters and more paparazzi has only calmed down for a bit. After all, the whole world is waiting for him to wake up, but that does not ameliorate that fact at all.

When he passed by, though, the distant sense of claustrophobia only becomes much worse.

“We have more private visitors, so we would appreciate it if you could please take your departure until we notify you of further details regarding this.” A doctor, almost laughably identical to the one that had briefly tended to Ouma, waves the reporters away. They persist, so the doctor called for security backup, and they reluctantly disperse.

Ouma lets out a subtle enough sigh that he hopes will not give away his presence, then he crashes right into a stray reporter with a feverish look in their eyes.

“Oh my… What good fortune! Aren’t you Ouma Kokichi?”

Ouma recalls his irritating perfume and scarf and chastises himself mentally on the fact that he didn’t take them. “I am not—”

“There’s no need to hide! You’re safe here with me! I just need one interview done with you, then I’ll leave!” They whip out a pen and notepad in no time. “So. If you don’t mind, I will also record this interview to serve as audio evidence. As a responsible reporter, I will inform you so as to give you a chance to think about whether you want that. So are you okay with that?”

“I am not—”

“Alright! Good to know you are okay with that, Ouma-san, it really means a lot. My first question is, what do you ultimately think about the entire Danganronpa Season 53? Like were they good with all the preparations and character settings and plots?”

“Why aren’t you listening to me I said I don’t want thi—”

“I suppose that as the supreme leader, you must be rather satisfied with it! Let’s move onto the next question then! My next question as to whether or not you have enjoyed your role as a secondary antagonist right after the mastermind? After all, it is in your script to be the main villain other than the mastermind by the virtue of being a Remnant of Despair following Enoshima Junko. So, is the role enjoyable? Anything you found interesting and memorable in particular?”

“I do not find anything memorable or interesting,” my only thought process was that i want to die, Ouma barely bites back the bullets. “the only thing I found interesting is—”

The reporter closes the notepad all of a sudden and turns to look Ouma into the eyes for the first time in this conversation. “I see how it is! I have wrongly judged your disposition. Your focus is more on the romantic side, right! Let me change my questions then.”

“I never even agreed to—”

“Question one then! Is your love towards Saihara Shuuichi written into the script, or merely improvised? Better yet,” The reporter nigh-pushed themself right onto Ouma’s face. “could it be you fall in love with him on-set?”

Every phantom inside of Ouma, threatening to spill out at any given opportunity, has scooped in for the kill. “What the fuck makes you think you can just keep giving me shit like that? Do everyone a favour, shut the fuck up and take your pathetic excuse for a functional being to nowheresville of asshat-land!”

Taken aback by Ouma’s sudden furor, the reporter stutters a few steps back. “Um, I’m, I mean, I don’t mean any harm and I just want a—”

“Like hell you fucking do! Fuck right off and never appear in front of me ever again!”

The look of admiration behind the reporter’s thick spectacles slowly turns into that of belligerence. “Alright. Alright! I see how it is! You fucking attention-seeking kids just want to be all secretive to keep being celebrities, right? Or is it because you think I’m not a good enough reporter to sell you? Guess what, Ouma Kokichi, I’m exactly going to write an article about how bad your behavior is and how much of a threat you are to society! Let’s see who the world believes in!”

“Don’t, don’t you fucking dare—”

“You’d honestly think any desperate reporter running on only one news article every week is not going to dare to do tha—”

“Hey.”

The duo pauses and turns towards the source of the voice, and Ouma wishes he has just dodged into the room rather than doing whatever he had done to lead to this.

Momota himself is staring down the reporter, an uncharacteristically tired look in his eyes.

“Hey. Leave my friend alone, a’ight?”

Friend? Ouma wisely keeps his mouth shut and panics internally as the reporter stands his ground. “Easy for someone like you to say, when you no longer need to worry about a job or anything! I just need to hand in one article! Why is it so hard for you fucking kids to—”

“There,” Momota stuffs a few notes into the reporter’s outstretched hand. “That should be enough for a whole month for you, right?”

“But…” They grind their teeth together and stares daggers once again at Ouma, then huffs and walks off.

“So, here to visit Shuuichi?”

The unprompted question tingles Ouma’s self-preservation instincts, and they are telling him to run out of the hospital and into a place no one will ever find him in. “W—What if I am, does that matter to you in any way?”

“Well, it’s still gonna be some more time before your slot begins, right?” Momota looks up from his watch and gestures towards a bench. “Wanna catch up a bit?”

The trap tightens up Ouma’s entire body and his lungs collapse.

⁕

Or at least that’s what Ouma feels like. His lungs have not collapsed, but if that really had happened and he is spared from talking to anyone other than Momota, he is looking for a way to punch a hole into his chest right this second.

“I’ve heard from Harumaki that you’re rooming with Toujou and Iruma… So how are you guys doing so far? Gotten into any trouble with them?”

For whatever ungodly reasons, Ouma feels a smirk not truly belonging to him consolidates on his face. “They have been living just nicely with me, Momota-chan. I mean, they are now living with a supreme leader without any other bothersome people attached! Under my glorious leadership, there is no way their lives could go awry!”

Momota looks at him with the same tired look he casts at the reporter. “What is the truth, Ouma?”

Ouma strains himself to mollify, to change into a him that is more palatable for everyone involved in the game, but then he remembers he is never intended for entertainment consumption anyway. “What does it bother you how we are doing anyway?”

“Because I care about you guys and Shuuichi would’ve done the same?”

Ouma bites back more bullets deep back inside of him, which would eventually scorch his insides, he is sure. “Fine. We are doing fucking excellent. End of the story.”

Momota heaves something of an agreeable sigh. “That’s good. Harumaki and Amami have been terrific roommates too, and if Himiko’s condition gets better she may live with us as well. Always good to gain more company if you ask me.”

Ouma keeps his mouth shut and waits, staring across into the infirmary room opposite where they are sitting at. Let this silence commence.

Momota, however, did not get the mental memo. “Are you really doing good yourself?”

“Why does that matter to you? And bringing up Saihara-chan again does not count.”

“Well, then I told you already that I do care about you guys, what more excuse can I use?” Momota puts the plastic bag he has been carrying around onto the seat between them. Then he looks down at it and Ouma can tell from the sparks in his eyes that this tribulation is far from over. “Oh, right. Are you developing a habit or anything? I mean, having no jobs must make everything boring after awhile. I personally have started taking care of potted plants. It’s calming, y’know? Just watering plants and getting rid of bugs occasionally.”

“Nice. I heard those plants are very interesting and challenging to take care of. But then again! Nothing is too challenging for the luminary of the stars, right?” Ouma turns around and plops his head on his hand and elbow on the bench, in the most overt way possible. If he has turned around, he bets he could see Momota glaring daggers at him, probably imagining Ouma with his usual smug face. Two o’clock has never been that far away.

Momota’s voice remains surprisingly calm, or surprisingly enervated, Ouma supposes. “Sarcasm and lies like that aren’t exactly going to get you far, Ouma. It’s fine if you want to say that in front of me, but I’m not discounting the fact that people in the outside world are going to hate you for that.”

The fuse burns in an instant. “And what makes you think you’re particularly good for the outside world right now, Momota-chan? Your indistinct persona? Your ability to indulge in some ultimately meaningless habits that yield nothing? The fact that you have remembered everything about your past and you can just go and give everything you’ve earned in Danganronpa up? Just fucking like that?”

“Then have you considered how much you have fucking done and how little you have done for literally anyone yourself!” Ouma flinches from the screech and balls himself up upon the sound of a pot breaking onto the floor. In the periphery of his vision, a little bit of dirt is visible, along with the shadow of a raised fist. Ouma hugs himself tighter.

Momota freezes in motion, looking dumbfounded and petrified at his own fist. He slowly puts it down to the side, sitting back down on the bench heavily. “Hey? You okay?”

Ouma’s mouth is sealed with self-administered thorns. “No.”

“Fuck. That’s another thing I fucked up here. Look,” Momota reaches across the empty seat between the two of them, and Ouma flinches away further. “that’s understandable. Wait where was I? Oh, right, I was about to, like, apologize for that.”

“Please don’t apologize for a minor fuck-up that you don’t think yourself wrong for.” Ouma’s voice is raspier than he himself thought, like a blade being dragged across a stone. A senseless act of violence.

“This might surprise you, but I do know what I have done is completely unsolicited and—”

“Unsolicited? Momota-chan knows big words like that?” Ouma tries to bring his leader’s charming smile back on his face, but it takes too much of him. And he is so tired.

“You may not see that coming but anyway,” Momota scratches the back of his neck and looks up at the ceiling. Looking anywhere other than Ouma. “it is a completely horrible move on my part, I apologize to you. That being said, I do think my point still stands.”

“What point did you make at all? That I should get a habit like taking care of potted plants like you?”

“Nah. My point is, you have to learn to move on and stop being the you from the game.” Momota pauses the scratching and digs into his pocket, fishing his phone out. He takes one close look at the screen and promptly turns it off. “Like, seriously, I just talked to you like for two seconds and you are already back to your lying ways and being your supreme leader self like no man’s business. It would actually be fair to say that you have not changed even one bit if I have to be absolutely honest. Except being a bit more rightfully rude, I guess. Scratch the rightfully part, more like unnecessarily.”

“For all you know, I’m already incorrigible, or I have already tried too many times to want to try again.” The refutation can be shattered by even the most bullheaded Danganronpa contestant, but Ouma spits it out regardless. “I’m just a washed-up Danganronpa competitor who has lost the spotlight. And of course, I love that. Nothing wrong with it. But of course! That could be just my trademark lies!”

Momota starts looking at Ouma with something almost like sympathy. Sympathy from a bystander who has never fallen and is now looking down at him comfortably from the top. “I guess I have overestimated your ability to change then. Like, I understand being defensive and aggressive, but. You are still not opening up.”

“Let me open up to you right this instant then?” Ouma redirects his blank stare towards Momota and forces his mouth open. “I’m done. I have shrivelled up completely into a poor replica of both versions of my former self. I’m too tired. I don’t want to do anything again, save for daily routines and finally going in to see Saihara-chan. Is that satisfying enough for you?”

“Ouma, look, I know all the wrong I have inflicted on you, but if you keep yourself closed up like that—”

“I’ll be just safe and sound because nobody can hurt me and I can’t hurt anybody. Right?” Ouma gets up abruptly, takes his backpack and finally walks into the patient room.

⁕

Saihara is reading a book when Ouma walks in. The cover is blank save for the title, almost reminiscent of the kind of classics that you will find in an English bookstore. The sentiment does not last, however, as Ouma gets closer and realizes that the title says “Saihara’s ideas”. Whatever that means, it has nothing to do with a classic novel.

“Ouma-kun?” Saihara pokes his head out of the book and stares right at Ouma. Unlike everyone’s gazes, Saihara’s always feels soft but firm, without feeling like a piercing glare. It’s crazy that Saihara could pull that off.

“Hello there, Saihara-chan,” Ouma just remembers that he has brought instant noodles here and is tempted to punch himself. “are you doing any better? Feeling any maggot still drilling into your brain?”

“Ouma-kun, you know technically there couldn’t be anything like that in any of our heads…” Saihara puts down the book entirely and sits up. That must have induced some pains onto him, but he still maintains his smile when he looks back at Ouma. “I’m really glad to see you here. I was starting to think nobody would come here after all.”

“Nobody? How could anyone resist the charms of the great Saihara Shuuichi though?” This comes out much more sarcastic and sincere a question, but Ouma asks it anyway. Saihara merely chuckles in his old good-natured manner. “I don’t exactly mean anyone in particular. I was just worried that you wouldn’t come.”

“… Huh?”

“I know what you want to ask, how you matter and all that.” Saihara scratches the back of his left hand, eyes cast down in this opportune moments. Does Saihara fear to look at him? “I start remembering a lot about my past before joining Danganronpa and realize quite a lot of things, I suppose. And looking back at everything that had happened, I think it’s not unfair to come to the conclusion that you are nowhere near as evil as you like to project yourself as.”

“That’s foolish of you to say, Saihara-chan. Do you have any evidence at all that would point to that?”

“Did you watch the in-universe Chapter Six of the game? Wait. That is a terribly awful thing to say, who would want to do that?” Saihara raises his head back up to look Ouma in the eye, unaverted but still with a note of hesitancy. “We found out all that you’ve done to stop the killing game. We know you’re not pure evil because of that.”

“Heh, that doesn’t matter now though, right?” Ouma takes out the instant noodles from the backpack and places them on Saihara’s lap. “We are supposed to move on and forget all these happened and all that.”

“That is absolutely not true.” Saihara picks up the noodles and places them on the counter next to the bed. In the gentle and serious way he puts them down, Ouma almost feels that Saihara does cherish his ‘gifts’. “We all went through this. Just because all our fates vary from one another doesn’t mean we haven’t been victims of this cruel game in our own ways. It is important for us to connect with one another still, and to find a way to heal ourselves by doing that.”

Good luck dragging me into group therapy then. “So, Saihara-chan, do you intend to start anytime soon? Our great protagonist leading us to a peaceful road to healing seems to make a lot of sense if I have to be honest. Or this could lead to us burning and crashing into nowhere, all these could be a lie.”

“It doesn’t have to start that soon. Whenever we are all ready, I hope I still command some sort of respect for you guys.” Saihara takes up the notebook again and opens to a particular page. Ouma takes that as his cue to leave.

“Oh! Right here.” Saihara gestures for Ouma to come closer to the bedside, eyes still glued to the page for no palpable reason. Ouma obeys, moving his own eyes to look into the notebook.

“What exactly are all these?”

“I used to be a writer before joining the game. At least I think so.” Saihara points to a line near the middle of the left-hand page, but Ouma detains himself from reading in too deep into old Saihara’s utterly unintelligible writing. “This used to be one of my ideas. I figured I could use it someday if I want to be a writer again.”

“So what is it about?”

“It’s about a suicidal kid who hires a biographer to write down the story of their life, so when the day they decided to die they could read this biography and feel how deeply worthless and meaningless their life had been. This progresses as a more hopeful story as it goes, however, and in the end, the kid realizes they are not worthless and feeling like living again.”

Ouma frowns. “Why exactly do you feel the compelling need to tell me that?”

Saihara redirects his innocent gaze at Ouma, a harmless smile with knives hidden tugging his lips into a curve. “I reserve myself to share an idea with everyone who has visited me. I thought that could be a fun way for us to connect instead of going directly into the heavy stuff if that makes sense.”

Ouma nods, his head filling up with nothing but dark waters. “That is nice of you, Saihara-chan. I hope that story didn’t turn out bad.”

Saihara smiles again and Ouma feels the knife plunged into him, twisted and turned. “Of course it didn’t.”

⁕

Ouma takes one bite out of the pizza slice Iruma stuffs him with. The pizza is nearly cold with pieces of pineapple on it, creased with the touch of a human being he still despises. All crimes against humanity, if Ouma can count as a human.

Soon enough, however, the cold pizza becomes too much, and Ouma gives up on munching it and opts to survey the room instead. There’s the fourteen of them here. Shirogane and Akamatsu are out of commission for whatever unknown reasons. Let’s hope their declines to this offer doesn’t sting Saihara in any way. If Saihara’s vaguely detached countenance is anything to go by, it does sting.

Once he is done with a cursory glance, however, the smell of bullets overwhelms him again, the latent tension he feels whenever he is around with anyone is at a full time high again, so Ouma goes back to munching on the pizza to alleviate it.

“I do not see how assembling all of us will assist us in any way, shape or form.” Shinguuji raises his voice slightly louder than the volume of a rusty piano choking out its last notes. “… I mean, by all means, don’t let me be a spoilsport, I should not have spoken, I should—”

“It’s alright, Shinguuji-kun,” Saihara stops sipping his fruit punch. “We are here to check on each other and speak our minds after all. Or if you don’t feel like doing so, that’s up to you.”

Silence occupies the room instantly with a side dollop of tension. And nobody feels that it is their responsibility to defuse it.

Except for the ever immobile Kiibo. “So! Perhaps we can start with how everyone is doing? Do you guys have any sort of routine or just doing anything fun in general?”

“I’m rooming with Hoshi and Angie,” Everyone stares across the table towards Tenko, who fumbles around uncomfortably and is leaning towards Toujou next to her as she seeks more words to fill the gap and farther away from the trembling Shinguuji. “Angie and I tried to find some fun for Hoshi, but he is a hard one to please. We tried volleyball and nearly killed him.”

“‘Tis ain’t no fun for me, but at least they have their own fun, I guess.” Hoshi speaks in the most resigned tone Ouma has ever heard, and yet there is an undeniable smile there and everyone is laughing. Everyone. Except him.

“Angie loves volleyball though! She is no expert in sports, but volleyball is just like ‘don’t let the balloon touch the ground’ as a more intense version, and Angie loves games like those!” Angie bounces around wildly, occasionally tripping herself onto the various baggages Saihara has taken into the house. “You keep your hands lower to the ground and punt the ball when it rushes to your direction!”

“That does sound really fun! Is daily life alright with you guys then?”

“Angie is taking Hoshi to therapy sessions and he’s making good progress to quit smoking! Tenko does her best to look for volunteer week outside, and soon Angie would love to join them as well!”

Ouma observes the minute details of everyone’s countenances. They are all changing every time he lays eyes on them, but not once do they look remotely sad or anything resembling brokenness.

“… Anyone else wanna share? Ouma-kun?”

Kiibo’s robotically cheerful inflection brings Ouma’s consciousness back onto the surface. Now everyone’s faithless eyes rubberneck him.

What do they see? Something they hate? Something they could tolerate?

“Of course I have everything to share, unlike you heathens who have nothing better to do in your life other than wasting out the rest of your lives!” Ouma does a fancy pirouette and musters up the most humane gait he could to get to Saihara. “The supreme leader is not just a rusty title! I do everything with gusto and the moxie only someone like me has!”

“If that’s so, Idiotma, you wanna tell everyone about how courageously you go and collect your toys from the ever-dangerous gacha machine?” Iruma’s cackle precedes what might be the most embarrassing moment in Ouma’s short life; with the click of a remote, the room darkens and a screen lights up, with said gacha game showing up in full view for everyone.

Ouma makes a mental memo to tighten up Iruma’s choker and makes the choker actually do its job in the not-too-distant future.

“Oh, so Kokichi does have some sort of gusto and moxie to collect things like that!” Angie instantly rolls with Iruma’s action, hands clasped together like a worshipper who had first witnessed a miracle done by God. Or in this case, by an all-around horrible person. What’s worst, Angie actually goes up and surveys the toys shown on the screen, and some of the others follow suit.

“You… Iruma-chan! Have you considered that while you have my collection in your grips, I also have your collection of erotica in my grips!” The mask slips comfortably onto Ouma’s chassis. “You really think none of us could see those gross books you have on your table all the time? Too bad, while you were setting my phone up, I studied your gross books and took them away!”

Iruma’s face falls faster than a drop tower going awry with no speed restraint. “Hey! What do you mean I own lewd stupid stuff like that! That’s just a lie of yours, right!”

“I am not! A good boy like me never lies! I have leverage against you now, so I’ll suggest handing my phone back!”

“Never! I cannot just stand here and let you slander my name! Now listen, you little twink—”

“Knock it off, both of you.” Toujou gently pushes both away from one another. It feels almost just like any other day in their household, if not for the uproarious laughter going off in the background like fireworks. His lungs getting just a bit easier to breathe, Ouma smiles. A smile he cannot hide and does not want to hide.

“Tch, Twinkma, here’s your stupid phone back.” Iruma pulls Ouma’s violet-shelled phone and hands it back to him. Ouma immediately opens the game and scrolls through his entire catalog of toys before remembering that toys cannot be sold or deleted in any way, and heaves a sigh of relief.

The fireworks gradually ebb into sparkles, and Saihara takes the lead again. “Hm, so, Ouma-kun, you wanna share anything else? Out of your own volition, of course.”

“As a matter of fact, I do!” Ouma points at Iruma yet again. “Iruma-chan loves baying like a hyena every day before breakfast, and it is really really annoying!”

“Hey! I gave you your phone back already, stop slandering me like that!”

“I’m not lying though, you’d know that, Iruma-chan! Sometimes the baying sounds a bit lower, and I think that means it’s mating season to attract better—”

Iruma slams a hand up to Ouma’s face desperately, but Ouma dodges out of the way before Iruma could get anywhere close. Toujou sighs deeply again upon realizing the two are at their throats once again. “Please. I believe you two have a better mode of interactions. Both of you can do better. Otherwise, either of you would be dead already.”

“Toujou-chan, you did forget to remark on the fact that you, me and Hyena-chan have died before though.”

Angie stops jouncing around. Iruma’s eyes ashen and widen. Everyone puts shocked cups down.

The sights are so much more than a verbal declaration of detestation, so much more deafening.

Even Kiibo needs to take this comment in for a few seconds before he could say anything. “So. Does anyone else want to?…”

“Well, not me.” Iruma pushes herself away from Ouma. “Preferably, I’ll go find a pillow to bay like hyena into. It’s mating season.” With that said, she quickly disappears up the ladders, but everyone could see stray tears spilling from the crevices between her eyes and arm.

Toujou looks back at Ouma, then to the staircase creaking with Iruma’s pounding steps, and quietly excuses herself as well.

“Well,” Ouma chokes back the scalding sobs threatening to erupt inside him (those are not sobs, obviously, they are only crocodile’s tears, you can only cry those tears), and along with those all the lies, lies, lies. “I think it really is best if we can just disappear off the face of this Earth and never come back.”

“You know, if you don’t have anything good and comforting to say, Tenko—I think you should shut it, Ouma.”

“Tenko-chan, you know, your lies are very very easy to detect. You could just say it out loud.”

Tenko’s face flushes up. “Ten—I just don’t think you should say anything more when your brain is empty and can’t find any emotion to stuff in there.”

“That’s fair. I never want to speak to any of you anyway—or is that a lie?” There is a crack in the smile, and Ouma imagines it is not pretty to look at.

“Nah, I bet that isn’t a lie, and I don’t need my magic to know that.” Himiko says, then adds air quote gestures just to drive in the point that she is no longer the magician in Danganronpa.

“It could be just that Yumeno-chan is as dense as ever! Anyway, I think it’s pretty unfair that I have to share more when most of you didn’t say anything at all? Anyone else wanna share and make Saihara-chan and Kiiboy happy?”

Nary a susurrus or shift can be detected, until Maki stands up. “I have enough. I don’t want to do this fake-ass group therapy thing anymore.”

“Oh, so you’re just going to disappoint Saihara-chan like that, Harukawa-chan?”

When Maki looks back at her, the flames in her eyes have long cooled into embers. And yet, Ouma can’t imagine a universe where Maki is not staring at him with murder in her eyes. “I’m just tired of all this. I’m tired of everything any of you try to concoct, and especially you, Ouma. So yeah, I’m going to just leave. Momota, if you try to follow me I’ll beat your pathetic ass up. My bat-swinging skills haven’t gotten that rusty.”

“Tch, Harumaki, can’t you just?…” Momota casts another frustrated look towards Ouma, then follows Maki out of the house. The resounding thud of the closing door kills the suspense altogether and Saihara coughs to clear his throat.

“Well then,” He stands up, his fruit punch forgotten on the table. “let’s meet another time when everyone feels up to it again. Or if they don’t ever want to talk, just meeting up is good enough too, I suppose. Thank you for coming, guys.”

⁕

“I’m glad I get to move in with you guys,” Saihara is unpacking a box of novels, putting them all onto a black bookshelf while Ouma is lying on the bed with his phone. His fingers vacillate between the web browser with the forum tab and the gacha machine game. “it’s always a pleasure to see you guys more instead of moving out on my own. That would be really bad.”

“It can’t be any worse with us, Saihara-chan, I mean I’m here to take care of you! So your decision is absolutely right.” Ouma presses on the browser and watches as hundreds of slandering comments pop up below the thread after he forgot to update for a week. He moves to delete all of them.

“That’s true. I don’t mind moving in with anyone in particular, but Toujou-san is really reliable and Iruma-san does bring this house some joy in her own ways, not to mention Kiibo-kun is mainly with us too.”

Ouma throws down the phone with a pout ready. “Saihara-chan! It’s great to hear that apparently, my presence doesn’t mean anything at all! As the supreme leader, I request you to get out until you recognize my reign, which is the only thing that is holding us all together!”

“Yes, you are absolutely right too, Ouma-kun.” Saihara steps away from the bookshelf and sits down on the bed next to Ouma. Ouma consciously moves a few inches further away. “Having you here feels nice too, especially because…”

“Because…”

Saihara looks out towards the window, seemingly at a loss for words. “To be honest, I can’t really pinpoint a particular reason why I think your company is comforting and something I prefer. But I just do. Having you here really feels nice, almost like home in some ways.”

“That’s flattery you reserve for girls and boys outside of the killing game, Saihara-chan. No such thing as feeling like home with us.”

Saihara lies down. “No such thing as feeling like home with you guys? Ouma-kun, the sixteen of us survived a mutual killing game. I think that’s about as bonding as it gets. Fire-forged friends, if you will.”

“As if! Saihara-chan, you aren’t blind, you can definitely see that everyone currently hates my guts, and Shirogane-chan is still so hated that she has to decline coming today. And let’s not even start with Akamatsu-chan.”

Ouma waits for Saihara’s fuse to burn and snap into a million splinters in the form of libels and tirades and leaving this house forever, but the fuse holds tight with a smile. “I think it’s unfair to assume so simply that they cannot change though, Ouma-kun. We all have more capacity for change in us if we just try. I’m sure someday they will turn around.”

Ouma opens his mouth to argue, only to realize all the words about to slip off his tongue are traitors to his mind and heart. So he shuts it, lies down just a little bit closer to Saihara, feeling up the little warmth he gives off in the close distance.

“Hey, Saihara-chan?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you ever think we can recover from this? Who will we be in the future? The we from the game, or the we from before? Or somebody in-between?”

Saihara tilts his head towards Ouma. “Ouma-kun… Does it matter, really, who we will be right now? There’s no real clear line between who we are. I know this whole memory retrieval procedures still carry fuzzy effects on you, but—”

“Saihara-chan,” Ouma will lose himself after this. “I did not get my old memories back.”

The fuse melts off slowly; so this is what becomes of it instead of the explosive end Ouma predicted. “You don’t. You don’t remember?”

“Yeah, I’m not getting them back, those rusty useless memories. Everyone prefers me as I am now, right? So why bother?” (Now you’re just telling lies for the sake of telling lies) “Why remember the obsolete me?”

Watching that radiance and smile freeze into paralysis is more painful than Ouma has thought, not that he would mind (of course you don’t mind, please keep up the lies we are all thrilled to hear them) “Obsolete? You think your past is obsolete?”

“That’s only a fact here, Saihara-chan.”

“Do you remember all the stories I have told you?”

A part of Ouma nearly switches on. “Stories?”

“All the stories I used to tell you before I gave up on being a writer, do you remember them?”

At that, Saihara starts peddling off congeries after congeries of his story ideas, but Ouma remains static, both his mind and heart and takes in all of them without a second thought, without any input of his own.

Saihara is gradually reduced to tears. “You… Don’t remember anything?”

“Saihara-cha—Saihara,” Ouma gets up and draws himself further away from him, further away from Saihara. “tell me, tell me yourself. Why should I get them back? Because everyone else is? Because this would magically make me more agreeable?” He grits his teeth then, as if that would make these words true. “I’m sorry for making this decision, but there isn’t a version of me that’s agreeable or good for anyone. So this is how I have remained. Better to be what everyone already knows than somebody else entirely.”

“There is a universe where you are agreeable and that’s the you from before.”

“And do you really think I can just abandon everything I have done in the game to be that me again?” Ouma gets up in a fit, looking down at Saihara’s petrified expression. “I can’t. I’m sorry I’m not that me from before or want to be that me anymore, because there’s only the me now. There’s no going back and there’s no returning from.”

Saihara remains silent. Ouma takes that as his cue to exit.

⁕

Ouma is filling up the forms when Shirogane appears in front of him.

“Oh, Ouma-kun? Why are you here?”

“What I am here doesn’t seem to be your business.”

Shirogane narrows her eyes, surveying Ouma in all his checkers-patterned attire glory again. “Perhaps I really have misjudged your disposition. You want your memories back just like everyone else, right? That’s understandable, you aren’t some intern like me who have to go through more and therefore can’t—”

“I’m not here to get back any more memories.” (what have they done for me anyway? what are memories? proof that i exist?) Ouma fills in his name, then moves onto the home address section. It just occurs to him that he doesn’t remember where his “home” really is. “And for the last time, stop pestering me.”

Shirogane fake-pouts (Ouma of all people would recognize that) and walks off mock-casually out of the waiting room.

Ouma’s eyes unintentionally gaze up at the header of the form yet again. Memory Erasure Procedures for Traumatized Participants. It seems hilarious, as if the form indicates that only some participants are traumatized enough to want to forget. As if not all of them are traumatized.

“478. Ouma Kokichi. Ouma Kokichi. Please head to room 14 for your appointment .”

Ouma heads in and is promptly faced with a thickly-spectacled nondescript doctor, one that is just like any other in this bloody headquarters of the producers.

“So, before we can proceed with this series of procedures, it is necessary for you to fill in this questionnaire before we can decide if the procedures fit you.”

Ouma takes the questionnaire and reads.

Can you provide a valid reason why you must go through these procedures?

Is there a possibility of abuse? Will you regret this ultimately?

Ouma skims through the entire thing and tears the paper into pieces.

“Hey, that doesn’t fit our pro—”

“I cannot and will not give two flying fucks about your procedures, mister.” Ouma produces more than twenty banknotes out of his pockets and places them right in front of the doctor. “Either you get me into those erasure head gears and finally wipe all these bullshit memories out of me, or I’m just going to leave this wretched place.”

The doctor casts a skeptical look at him, but they don’t argue any further and pockets the cash. “Do you have a preferred time to carry out the procedures?”

⁕

Ouma pockets the confirmation slip and walks back home. Around this time, Toujou would have been finished with her barista job, and Iruma should be somewhere upstairs carrying out whatever weird experiments she had in mind. Saihara could be in any corner of the house.

Ouma opens the door and Saihara pulls him in.

“Wait wh—” Before Ouma can properly process what is happening, Saihara digs deep into his pockets and scoops out the one thing he never wants Saihara to take possession of.

“Are you going to explain this?”

Ouma forcefully puts on his mask. “Oh, that’s just my backbone surgery paper, Saihara-chan may not know but my back has been hurting like—”

“This is your memory erasure surgery papers, right?”

Ouma does a double take. He didn’t use the house’s landline for the appointment. He didn’t use the computer to send any consultation email.

“I know because Kiibo-kun watches you looking for the Team’s hotline and calling them while everyone else’s out.”

“Well, well, well, Saihara-chan has once again become such a good detective, I’m impressed! And—”

“Ouma, be honest with me once.” Saihara takes a broad step towards Ouma, and Ouma instinctually takes a step back closer to the wall. Upon seeing that, Saihara takes a step back. “What were you trying to do?”

“Nothing! I just realized that taking all these memories along with me while I try to dominate the world will only create obstacles, so I’m making a move to—”

“Your real reasons. Not more lies.” Saihara detaches himself from the wall, leaving a convenient opening for Ouma to run. “Please. I trust you. Please.”

“Trust me? Saihara-chan, you trust a liar like me?”

Saihara swallows hard, but his eyes are not filled with uncertainty. In fact, they have definitely softened somewhat. “I trust you no matter what.”

Ouma takes in his surroundings; the dark house obviously not holding Iruma or Toujou, who might be on his side on a good day, and while Saihara did not do anything more, he is still in front of him and demanding an answer, a truth.

wanting to know an answer, a truth.

“… Once upon a time, I didn’t live in this world.”

Ouma expects another accusation of him lying, but Saihara stays silent, the haze of sadness in his eyes clearing a bit.

“Once upon a time, I am not a supreme leader or live in a TV show to entertain everyone.” Ouma continues. “Once upon a time, I was nothing. Then I came to Danganronpa as a villain.

“A villain of lies who challenges everyone and is rightfully punished at every turn for it. But then it turns out I am not the proper villain and then I am easily vanquished and returned to reality.

“I wonder about my purpose… Everyone else is informed the option to become the nothing they used to be, but I abandoned the choice. I was nothing and so the villain inside of me is all that I still have. I cannot lose it.

“The us now… I am surrounded by the everyone that wants to forget this has happened, despite their promises to stay friends with one another. I cannot tolerate that, but I have no power to overturn it. So, I will remain the one crux of remembrance towards this game. By doing that, I must not fear everyone, I must not continue indulging everyone in their routine of forgetting.

“But I failed. Don’t you see? You may argue it is a one-off occurrence… But it is not that simple. I know that in my bones. I know that as clearly as I know everyone carries a burning hatred towards me except you. My existence no longer carries any meaning beyond as an object of hatred for everyone else and a burden for you and Iruma-chan and Toujou-chan and Kiiboy.

“And thus, I must erase myself, and once again return genuine balance to these people. To this whole world.

“There’s no moral to this story,” Ouma sputters out from loose lips, his frisson increasingly violent and frequent. “it’s just my sto―story and I hope I haven’t wasted too much of your time.”

Saihara takes up Ouma’s hand unwarned, gently dragging him to the sofa in the hall. “Does it make the fact that we are still alive any less impressive though?”

“Anyone else being alive is impressive,” except me, Ouma keeps in those words. But his power of will is not any more powerful than the need to speak them out, so Ouma buries his face into his hands, clawing into the delicate skin that barely keeps in every phantom inside his body. “anyone has a chance to walk a path they believe in. That’s a lie of course. W―Were you, you expecting,” the words splinter and disintegrate into dust before they could come out. “some―something,”

Saihara places his right hand on Ouma’s shoulders, then gradually drags Ouma into an embrace. Ouma starts bawling then, hot tears scorching every inch of his skin, threatening to spill and drag tracks onto the ground.

“Ouma… We all have a story, I believe, and yours is no less important than the rest of us. And the story is far from over.” Saihara tentatively pats on Ouma’s head, reaching for a tissue paper and hands it to Ouma.

“Every story has to have dark chapters before a good ending can be reached. The villain gets the hero’s loved ones, someone the hero considered a friend betrays them… But after the hero gets their loved ones back, and the friend sacrifices themself for the hero and is redeemed, the good ending comes. Or a good interlude. That’s nice too.”

“Then,” Ouma starts wiping his eyes, all raw red from crying too much and being rubbed too much. “what is the moral? Sometimes the hero is the villain?”

“There’s no need for a moral to make a story worth reading and hearing, right?” Saihara softly presses a kiss onto Ouma’s forehead. “What it means to the storyteller and the audience differ, and it’s up to us to give meaning. But if you ask me the moral of this particular story,” Saihara, at last, grips Ouma’s right hand tightly. “I think it’s that everyone deserves a second chance and a chance to be happy.”

#saiouma #ndrv3 #kokichi ouma #shuuichi saihara #miu iruma #kirumi toujou #submission

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