#oumota is the only thing that keeps me sane

[lampochkaart]

Oumota Week 2023

Day 1: Hospital AU

Bonus!

[rev-eeriee]

For the writing prompt thing how about some angsty Oumota with 34??

34. “If you really love me, you’ll let me go”

[A/N: Set in my timeloop AU, before the events of “Fixing What’s Broken”.If you haven’t read that yet, this has SPOILERS.]

Momota-chan.

Momotawas kissing him against the hangar floor, softly, sweetly. Ouma sighed intothe kiss, even when the smell of rust and salt assaulted his senses, even whenthe taste of blood lingered on his tongue. Any moment now… any moment nowMomota would be taken away from him again, as he always was over and overagain. Ouma didn’t really care about the plans he had concocted so meticulouslyon the first few timelines anymore. He didn’t care about solving this KillingGame anymore. Because he had already learned the truth from the mastermindherself at that disastrous excuse of a sixth trial so long ago. Whether or nothe survives at the end of the game didn’t matter—time would loop againanyway. He’d be given the choice yet again, and he’d refuse it anyway.

I’ll always be here foryou. His promiseweighed on him. I’ll get you out of thistimeloop someday, Momota-chan.

Someday he would fulfill that promise. It was the only thing keeping him sane.

Oumagasped as Momota started kissing down his neck—enthusiastic, unhinderedkisses that made him wonder just what timeline this Momota was in. He was still determined, sane, happy, hopeful… and yet he loved Ouma all the same.Let’s see… Momota-chan claims he fell inlove with me around his own twentieth timeline… which was probably mythirty-second… His logical mind wanted to figure this mystery out, but thekisses Momota was peppering against his skin was making him more and more lostevery second. Ah, fuck it.

“Momota-chan…”his voice was a breathy whisper. “What timeline is this?”

Momotamade a thoughtful hum at the back of his throat. When he replied he sounded hesitant.“I’m not sure… twenty-sixth?”

Ah. Ouma giggled. The Momota in his twentiesand thirties timelines has always been his favorite. He pulled at his shirt andkissed him on the lips again, hard, enjoying the way Momota’s gasps stutteredat the way his hands moved against his chest. It felt like forever, making outagainst the cold floor, and Ouma wished he could stay here just a little whilelonger. But Momota was already pulling back, coughing hard against his ownfist. Blood dripped down Ouma’s cheek.

“I really… don’t want to kill you,” Momota confessed. 

Oumamade a faint smile and whispered. “If you really love me, you’ll let me go.”

Momota shook his head. “But why? Why do you always have to do this? Kokichi, I… I wanted you to live,” His voice was pained. “I always want you to live.” 

Ouma stared at his poor Momota blankly, numbly. He knew this was selfish, not telling Momota the truth, making Momota kill him over and over again. But it was the only thing that was helping him cope. After everything he’s done, after everything he’s been through, the thing that never failed to push him to the brink of breaking was only one thing, and one thing alone. 

I can’t stand seeing you die. 

“I want to end the killing game,” Ouma lied. “This is the only way, isn’t it?” 

Momota fell silent. He frowned as his eyes glazed over, before he shuddered and swallowed hard. “T-Then let’s get this over with.” 

“Howcold, Momota-chan. Just because I’d be revived again in your end, killing medoesn’t even bother you anymore?” Ouma giggled softly. “Well, I suppose over the timelines, it gets easier.” 

“No,” Momota whispered, but his face was tired, resigned to his fate. “It never gets easier.” 

I’m sorry, Ouma’s thoughts whispered, the guilt eating at his insides. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so… so sorry—

He deserves it, another part of him argued, clawing at his heart with the sheer hatred for everything Momota has done to him, whether the astronaut was already aware of it or not. For making you fall for him. 

(Magenta and purple like wine, warmthand love and galaxy print jackets—)

Ouma felt weak as Momota helped him up into the cold surface of the press. 

(Magenta and purple like wine, hickeys and hatred and a warehouse doused in pink—)

Ouma felt sick. Momota peered at him with sad eyes, asking, “You ready?” 

I am never ready for someone like you, Ouma didn’t say. 

Instead, he smiled, feeling the mess of both affection and loathing twist painfully inside him, both despaired and exhilarated by the fact in the end, all of this was born from spite, from the sheer desire of wanting to punish the man he loved. 

I love you and I hate you meant one and the same, these days. 

“Ready,” Ouma replied. He didn’t miss the way Momota’s hand shook as he brushed his cheek. 

“Okay.”