#yuuta writers try not to get morbid challenge GO

[pileofmush]

purple goldfish

: ̗̀➛ You’re just a girl, but you know a thing or two about love: That’s how you know Okkotsu and Rika won’t last.

scenario : ̗̀➛ childhood friends au w/ okkotsu yuuta

info : ̗̀➛ tags: fem!reader (called a girl), rika has a presence here, a lil morbid & offputting but still cute at times i swear >.< // cw: non-linear narrative, canon-typical horror, proceed w/ caution // wc: 4.8k

thoughts : ̗̀➛ in honor of yuuta's return!! the tags make this seem scarier than it rlly is. she's cute! she's fun :3 + also crossposted on my ao3

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You’re just a girl when you learn what love is. 

It’s the tiny brown snail that fits in the center of your palm. The smiley face a friend draws in the corner of your sketchbook. The bunny-shaped cloud you spot in the sky. The lunch bag thrust in your arms before you walk to school.

That’s how you’re sure. 

What Okkotsu and Rika have— it’s love. 

In a way.

A cloying, bundle-under-the-covers-like-puppies kinda love. Bubblegum sweet. …But not long-lasting. Hubba Bubba love. It’ll dull on your tongue after a few chews. 

You’d never tell them that, though. Rika’d probably push you down the stairs if you did. Best not poke the hornet’s nest on a whim. They’ll grow out of this phase, you’re sure. You’re all just kids, after all.

Whatever happens, as long as Okkotsu and Rika are happy, you’re happy.

(You’re just a girl when you learn that little girls can die, too.)

“Hey.” 

No sign. Nothing. Not even the wind whistles.

“I painted my nails for you. Not purple, though. I know you’d hate that.”

She would.

Orimoto Rika hates a lot of things. You know this about her because she tells you just about everything she’s feeling. And a lot, if not most of what she communicates, is some sort of contempt. She hates math, bugs, feet. The color orange, bad breath, and most of her female classmates. She hates being the center of attention. She hates not being the center of attention. She hates her teacher, and her grandmother, and you’re pretty sure her deceased parents, too.

You don’t mind the complaints. You hate things as well. Like, crooked lines. Asymmetrical haircuts. Extra loud noises. Bears. Odd numbers. And that’s pretty much it. You keep them all on a list so that you won’t forget.

Rika calls you strange, but you take it as a compliment. 

Though, if anyone is to be assigned the title strange, it’s Rika, who hates and hates and hates with nothing less than a picture-perfect smile.

She’s a complicated girl. The most complex one you’ve ever met. 

Maybe that’s why you like her so much. 

The first time you meet Okkotsu Yuuta, he finds you crying on the floor of an empty classroom. He squeaks, pulling your attention from the linoleum tile to the doorway, where he hovers about awkwardly.

You wipe your eyes and glare at him, bracing yourself for the load of teasing you’re in for. Surely he’ll call his friends so that the entire student body can come laugh at your pathetic display. But the laughter doesn’t come. He stumbles over to you on weak knees—like that baby deer Bambi from your favorite movie Bambi—and sits beside you.

“You’re in my class, right?” 

You shrug. Wipe away another stray tear. You’re in 1-B, but truthfully, you have no clue who is or is not in your class. He doesn’t seem familiar to you. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, a glow of youth coloring his round cheeks red. He’s wearing a baby blue tee with a triceratops on it and a mild smile.

No, you can’t say you’ve noticed him before this encounter. You’re still new—have yet to get your bearings. Everything’s different over here. The local convenience store doesn’t sell the brand of chips you like. Lunch starts at a different time. The school playground’s smaller here. 

It’s just. Off. Everything’s off, and you don’t— you can’t—

“Don’t cry, it’s okay,” the boy says, interrupting your spiraling thoughts. A fresh set of tears laps against your waterline. Instead of casting judgment, his tone is quite gentle when he asks, “What’s wrong?” 

Nothing is wrong. You’re what’s wrong. 

He notices your hesitance and supplies you with another smile. “I’m Okkotsu Yuuta,” he says. He’s missing a bottom tooth. “You’re the new girl, right?”

Relatively. You give a slow nod, still not certain about this strange kid’s motivations. What does he want? He does know that you’re both currently missing class, right? Someone will come looking for you any minute. You could get in trouble. He doesn’t act like it though. He’s gotten comfortable, cozying up next to you on the floor.

He looks at you, really looks at you, with sad puppy eyes. 

“You’re lonely, right?” 

The question knocks the breath from your lungs. Yes, you whisper. Very.

This girl doesn’t like you much. She waited at the school gates for Okkotsu, not you, so you understand why her body stiffens when she spots you; why she takes a step back. But then Okkotsu trudges forward, and so do you, as he’s tugging on your left hand. 

The girl’s big brown eyes narrow at your connected hands, her smile unnaturally large. You pull your hand from Okkotsu’s sweaty grasp, his gaze ping-ponging between you and the girl. A hopeful bundle of nerves. Be our friend, his eyes sing. 

You don’t… You don’t want to let him down. 

“Yuuta, who’s this?” The girl asks. You cut yourself on the edge of her voice: all blade, drenched in honey. 

Okkotsu opens his mouth to speak, but you have a feeling he’ll say the wrong thing. So you quickly tell her your name, that you’re seven, and new. “Please take care of me,” you say. Then you bow. She seems like the type to like that.

She does. She blinks a few times; the tension in her body relaxes. She’s very pretty, like that. Her hair flows behind her back like water. Her skin is unblemished, save for the tiny mark beside her mouth. Pretty, indeed. You tell her so. She preens, just like you expect her to.

You don’t expect it to affect you, but when she steps up to you, lashes fluttering, and clasps your hands together, you melt. Even you have a weakness for pretty girls, you suppose.

“I’m Orimoto Rika. You can call me Rika.” 

Okkotsu sighs in relief, mirth dancing in his eyes.

You smile.

It’s not supposed to be like this. You stare, hands clenched into fists. Something sharp pierces your palms—your nails. It doesn’t matter. What’s one drop of blood to the liters pooling around… around…

You tug on the scarf wrapped around your neck. A slowly tightening noose.

Okkotsu trembles to your right. You hear him whimper her name. His knees shake. You wonder if he’ll collapse, right next to her. The body. 

He doesn’t. 

You’re glad. It would ruin the yellow hoodie you got him. For his birthday. 

Oh God, it’s his birthday.

Okkotsu and Rika are genuinely a joy to be around, you come to find. They take turns pushing you on the swings, and don’t pressure you to spin on the merry-go-round, because they know you get dizzy. They include you in their conversations and go out of their way to make you smile.

Whenever lunch comes, Okkotsu pulls a chair up to your desk so that you can eat together. He slides his snacks over; you peel his oranges for him. Sometimes you talk about cartoons, sometimes you help him with his homework, and sometimes he watches you draw. Other times, he tears a sheet of paper out of his notebook, and you two play games like hang-man, or tic-tac-toe. He rarely wins, but he never gets angry.

He also possesses the uncanny ability to know whenever you need a distraction: quick to ask you a question he already knows the answer to, or to start humming a tune under his breath, or to offer you a flower he plucked from outside. 

For example:

You’re staring at the mystery novel in your lap, swinging your feet back and forth on the bench you’re cooling down on, to little relief. Sweat clings to your skin as you open-mouth pant like a weak little dog. 

It’s summer break, and you, Okkotsu, and Rika met up today at the usual park you guys frequent. Full of neat contraptions and primary colors. Hot reds, electric blues, and canary yellows—making up the joyful, color-clashing nightmare you know all play parks to be. Your friends are somewhere by the sandpit, making a tower with the sand castle molds Okkotsu brought from home. You’d join them, but you’re tired, and don’t feel like getting sand in your hair.

There’s a ton of kids here, with small, grabby hands and gleeful screams and piercing wails whenever one falls and gets a boo-boo. Whistles and bells fill the hot summer air, along with the nonstop drone of the cicadas, croaking their little cicada song. 

Your eyes are trained on the tiny print of your novel, but your brain can’t process the words, so you’re stuck rereading the same paragraph over and over and over. It’s the heat, undoubtedly. Melting your brain into goo. You clutch the paperback and squint, fingers careful not to bend the spine.

A call of your name has you looking up from the text. Okkotsu fills your vision, standing right in front of you—you don’t know how you missed him. “What’s up?” you ask, slotting a bookmark into your book and closing it shut.

He shuffles his feet. His face is flushed red from the sun. “Here,” he says, bringing his arm from behind his back. He’s holding something out to you, you realize after a beat. Your gaze follows the length of his arm to find a tiny little dandelion drooping in his fist. Canary yellow. “I got this for you.”

The first time he pulled this little trick, you stared at him for a solid minute. But this isn’t the first time, so you simply smile. “Thanks, Okkotsu,” you say, opening your palm so he can drop the flower. Somehow, as usual, he knew exactly what you needed.

But he hesitates: his expression wavers until it steels with an emotion you can’t identify. “C-Can I?” 

You blink once, twice. “Can you…?”

Okkotsu stumbles forward, almost falling into your lap, but he steadies himself on your thighs. The harsh chemical scent of sunscreen washes over you, sizzling your nose hairs. You go rigid, as stiff as the park bench digging into your skin, but he presses on, leaning over your shoulder until you feel something small get tucked behind your left ear. “There,” he hums, backing up a bit to admire his work. Admire you. 

Your brain must really be melting. “What,” you stammer out, “What the—”

“Now it’s where it belongs.” There’s a silly little grin on his face. He’s proud of himself. You tell him so. 

“You look nice,” he explains. “Pretty.” 

Moths stir to life in your stomach. You look... He thinks you look pretty?

Okkotsu shakes his head in dismay—like you’re the one not making sense—then talks reallll slow. “Of course you do,” he enunciates, reading your mind. He turns away from the bench, towards the sandpit, where Rika sits on her knees, sculpting a tower. “Now, are you done reading yet? We wanna show you our castle. It’s got a moat, with—with crocodiles! And…”

Without waiting for an answer, he catches your hand and drags you to the sandbox. 

What you don’t tell him is that you keep all the flowers—weeds, really—that he gifts you. Press them in between the pages of a heavyset book and frame them on your bedroom wall, so that when you pass by it, you feel— 

Well, loved.

You’re lucky, you hear someone say as they usher you towards a curb. You let them, because you probably couldn’t make it there on your own. They encourage you to sit, but bending your knees is a no-go. 

You need to stand. 

Lucky, they said. Because you didn’t see it. The collision. 

But you heard it. 

The screech of burning rubber. The snap of child bones. Rika’s last few gasps for air— gargling on her own blood.

Ah, that’s just your overactive imagination at play. All you really heard was an innocuous thud, as your friend’s body hit the ground. After that, you heard nothing.

Nothing at all.

So. Guess you are lucky.

Your friendship with Rika is a lot different than your friendship with Okkotsu. She treats you differently than she treats him.

Well, yeah. Because she likes him, sure. But… it’s almost like… She drops her mask a little when she’s just with you. Or maybe… She just puts on a different one. It’s hard to say. 

“What do you think of this color?” 

Rika hangs off the side of your bed, her long black hair tickling the fibers of your carpet, and she’s holding up a bottle of nail polish to the ceiling light. You look up from the movie collection you’re sifting through, at the polish in question, and squint.

It’s a deep, dark purple, glimmering like a Christmas ornament under the light. 

It’s your first ever sleepover—Rika’s grandma finally gave in to her after, like, a year of complaining— and you think it’s going well. The two of you are doing classic, girly things. Like, painting nails. Rika’ll have to wipe it off before she goes back home, but that won't stop her from painting them now.

“It’s cute. You should pick that one,” you hum, turning back to the stack of DVDs in your hand. Godzilla, Cars, Cars 2, Cars 3… Or maybe she would be down to watch Bambi?

“Do you think Yuuta would like it?” She asks, breaking your contemplation. You turn to face her. She’s asking genuinely—a rarity—picking at the fuzz on her celestial pajamas. A wrinkle’s wormed its way between her brows. 

You shuffle to her side from the floor, dragging your knees up the carpet length to press a thumb between her temples, squashing the worm. She peers at you with curiosity, still upside down. It’s a wonder all the blood hasn’t rushed to her head. But that’s not the point. The point is—

“Of course he’d like it,” you say, flicking her in the forehead. “You know that. Okkotsu’d like you in a fat suit.”

It’s the weight behind your words that stops her from retaliating, jaw going slack as she considers you. Eventually, she nods, smile curving like the Cheshire Cat stuffy perched on your bed.

“He would, wouldn’t he?”

You go back to your DVDs, grip on the plastic covers a little tight. He would.

Rika becomes something like an older sister to you. Only a year and a half older than you, but with the way she’s got you tucked under her wing, you’d think she was much older. You don’t mind though. That’s just Rika. 

And Rika’s Rika. She wants what she wants. Maybe even the whole world. She could probably get that, too. Pretty girls always do. She says that a lot. And it must be true, because she wants Yuuta, and Yuuta wants her too. 

More than anything, you know she wants to be loved. That’s why you’re not surprised when she pulls you aside one day and shows you the ring she stole from her grandmother’s dresser drawer. Her late mother’s. To propose to Okkotsu, she says, for when they get older. So they’ll be together forever.

Of course, you respond. Toss her a closed-mouthed smile. Kids are allowed to dream.

And really, they do seem to be in love. Rika shared her umbrella with him the other day—when it rained and he forgot to bring his own for the walk to school. And he huddled up real close, gray-black eyes sparkling like a raindrop catching the sun.

Love is all around you. 

And you’re content with that. You love and are loved. You will love and will be loved— you’re certain of this, at the ripe age of nine.

(You wonder if love dies when the body does.)

Rika dies on the cusp of spring, a few weeks before the flowers start blooming.

Things aren’t the same after that. 

Well.

In actuality, not much has changed. Life moves on. You don’t think the kids at school liked Rika very much, in retrospect. Not even the adults. They hardly seem torn up about it. 

Your parents do get overprotective, though. They drive you to school for a month. Hire someone to pick you up when the bell rings. Which is stupid. It’s not like Rika was killed on the walk to school. 

She was killed outside a playground. 

There’s a difference.

Okkotsu becomes withdrawn, which confuses you. He seems terrified of his own shadow, nowadays. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. The last time you spoke to him was during the funeral, and he barely uttered a few words, then.

Your ma says to give it time. You’re both grieving.

Is that what this is? 

Mourning?

The walk to her grave is long. The soles of your shoes sink into the ground. It rained last night, which makes it harder to walk, which makes this trip harder than it has to be. Your shoes are getting dirty. They’ll be crusted with mud, after this. But it’s alright. These shoes are old.

There’s fresh flowers on her grave: bright yellow stars with mandarin orange bells bursting out the center. Daffodils, you’re pretty sure. You place a bouquet of kingyosou beside them. Goldfish grass. The person at the flower shop advised against the particular flower for a grave—something about its underlying meaning—but they were in the most pretty shade of purple, so. 

You take a seat beside the mound of dirt, fingers twisting in the grass. The cuts on your palms have healed.

“Hey.” 

No sign. Nothing. Not even the wind whistles.

“I painted my nails for you. Not purple, though. I know you’d hate that.”

She would. Rika could be very possessive. Especially over her Okkotsu. 

Maybe that’s why he’s avoiding you, now. To not disturb her memory.

But dead girls can’t get jealous.

By the time you finish talking, the sun has set. You look at the grave one last time. There stands a tombstone with a lackluster message and a flattened mound of dirt. Underneath lies one of your only friends. The other hides from his own shadow.

Your dad hovers nearby, ready to go. But you linger. Eyes bore into the ground, searching for something that will make all of this worth it. 

Violet goldfish swim next to yellow stars, amidst a sea of green. 

But no sign from Rika.

You spin on your heel, hands shoved into your pockets. This was not very helpful. You’re not sure you’re mourning correctly. 

 At least the flowers were pretty. 

Today is not a good day. 

It’s raining. It’s raining, and there is no forgetful Yuuta to squeeze underneath Rika’s polka-dot umbrella while you lead the way home, tip-toeing over puddles. There is no Rika. And there is no Okkotsu. And everything, everything—

You wring your hands, desperate to relieve some tension. 

The school day is over. Kids trickle out of the classroom like water down a drain, as if pulled by some gravitational current. The desire to go home. 

And yet, you stay. Your feet tap the floor, underneath your desk. Raindrops splatter against the window beside you, like—

Like blood. 

Something sour curdles in your stomach. 

You slide out of your chair, make your way to your cubby, but with each step you take, the cubby seems to get further away. But, that’s not right. That defies all logic. You can make it. Okay? You can. Just. One step. 

There. See? Go ahead now. Take another. 

Another. 

Another. 

Somewhere in between five steps and a hundred, your legs stop functioning as they should. Your knees bend inward, and you collapse. 

This… This is pathetic.

Your palms sting as you quietly nurse your hurt. There’s this yawning void in you, sucking and pulling, expanding and collapsing and threatening to take everything with it. This is it. This is your moment. The break-down your parents have been tip-toeing around long before Rika kicked the bucket. A decade’s-long culmination of confusion, of derision, of just barely making the cut pretending to be a happy, wholesome, totally normal child.

You should cry. You want to cry. You blink furiously, waiting for the tears to come. But they don’t come. Why can’t you do anything right?

A soft call of your name startles you into clarity, everything sharpening as your gaze zeros on the trembling frame of a slim boy. And it’s Okkotsu Yuuta. Of course it is. Always walking in on your most vulnerable moments. 

And he’s drenched. Of course he is. Pale as a sheet. Mud-speckled jeans dripping sludge onto pristine white tile. An absolute mess, but then again, so are you. “Are you okay?” he ventures. 

He’s different. It’s obvious. He’s lost a bit of weight, and his complexion is almost sickly. But there’s something else about him that. That’s off. Something you can’t pin down.

You look him up and down, still, despite the staticky beat of your heart. Now���s the time to say something profound.

You point at the ground. “Your shoes are untied.”

Okkotsu looks at you, really looks at you—in that foreboding way he sometimes does—and breaks into a smile. It’s not his usual smile: it’s heavy. There’s a myriad of emotions behind his stupid little smile. Grief; joy; longing; relief.

You burst into tears. 

This—it’s too much. You’d rather he have just left you here to wallow in your own self-pity. What’s the difference? He’s quite good at it: leaving you. 

But he’s curling around your shoulders and rocking you back and forth and it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s here, finally, cold and wet and trying his hardest to burrow into your skin.

“I’m sorry,” he cries, lips grazing the shell of your ear as he pleads for you to forgive him. He smells like wet earth. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, over and over, so that you’ll never forget it; so that it’s sewn into your skin. “I’m sorry.” He’s babbling now, begging for salvation.

Once you feel the Presence enter the classroom, you understand why he’s apologizing. Understand why he’s avoided you so fiercely, until now. 

Your freeze. Every nerve in your body tinged with all-encompassing dread. Not fear, but dread. It’s thick. Intoxicating. Okkotsu’s getting heavy above you, muttering frantic words that you cannot hear. He knew this would happen. Knew She would appear.

She’s the most wicked thing you’ve ever seen, heard, dreamed. A writhing, hulking… form. And you know. Deep down in your belly. 

Rika’s the last thing you’ll ever see. 

She’s long. Muscular and skeletal, with long, finger-like claws and thick, bulging muscles. Pulsing, organ-like tubes extend from her head to her back. And a solemn, inky purple oozes out of her torso. Rika.

Her whole body’s quivering: but with what? Rage? Excitement? Will she enjoy tearing you apart? With her large gaping maw? And her long pointed teeth? 

Will she enjoy tearing you limb for limb? Or sinking her teeth into your flesh?

Maybe she’ll lap at your puddling blood like a dog in a stream. Or maybe she’ll just swallow you whole. It’d be less messy, that way.

Yuuta’s still cradling you. His tremors run through you—so, in a way, you are shaking. That’s something. Little girls who are about to die should probably be shaking. 

“Yuuta,” you say plainly. His name is sweet on your tongue, but he reeks of death. Thoughtlessly, your hand slides to the floor, seeking his, and he accepts it, flipping yours over to clutch it in a death grip. Your thumb swipes over his, back and forth, as she approaches. “It’s not your fault.”

It’s no one’s, really.

Sometimes little girls just die.

Yuuta’s grip tightens impossibly. “You’re not gonna die,” he tells you. “I won’t let you.”

She’s close, now. Still buzzing with the unidentifiable emotion. If she can even feel things like emotions.

You eye the clock hanging above the chalkboard. It’s a quarter past three. “Right.” The urge to cry’s come back in full force. “I don’t—I don’t wanna die,” you admit.

You won’t, he promises. You know he means it. He probably plans on jumping in front of you at the last second like an idiot. 

 But this.

This isn’t fair.

You detangle your limbs from Yuuta and rise from the floor on unsteady legs, ignoring your friend’s protests. He’s obviously in over his head on how to deal with his murderous, undead ex-girlfriend. But you’ve always understood her in ways he didn’t. You’ve got to come through. 

“Rika.”

She’s looming over you now. Her jaw’s unhinged even farther, flecks of spittle flying from her mouth and landing on your cheek. You breathe in through your nose. It’s Rika. Just Rika. You two are just girls, sitting atop your bed, discussing your favorite movies and insecurities and all the things she’ll never get to do when she grows up. She’s holding a bottle of polish to the light, lips curved in a coy smile.

“Purple suits you,” you say, looking at her tail. “I’ll… I’ll paint your nails. Later. To match.“

It’s stupid.

It works.

She stops. Snarls, and reaches a hand toward you. You don’t flinch; stand eerily still as she drags a sharp claw down your cheek. 

And you look good in red—is what she’s thinking. You know this, because you know her, and you loved her and… Maybe she loved you too.

Then she leaves.

Yuuta barrels into you: checking your hands, your arms, your face. You stiffen under his touch, overwhelmed with this casual intimacy that’s quickly developing between the two of you. But he’s on a mission, brushing your hair out of your face and fluttering his hands over your neck and your brain has gone mute. He pauses. The pad of his thumb hovers over your cheek as he swallows. When he lifts his thumb to examine it, it’s stamped with your blood. 

His pupils are blown out, and his irises have darkened from gray-black to just black, so his eyes are practically two black holes. They flicker from his thumb to you before he lifts it slowly to his… to his— 

You smack his hand off its path. “You’re… you’re crazy,” you marvel. You’re both in shock. That’s why he just—

He catches your wrist easily, shooting back an even easier retort. “And? So are you,” he says, tugging on your wrist. Pulls you into him, pulls on the thread of your being and unspools you—like he’s a black hole himself, and you can’t—you can’t deny him when he brushes his thumb underneath your eye and brings it to his mouth. You let out a watery laugh.

It’s a wonder Rika hasn’t come back to kill you.

But she hasn’t and you’re still here, and so is he, and his black hole eyes are boring into yours, waiting, waiting for a response.

“She’s attached to you, you know,” you say.

He swallows again. Mournfully; a sinner, seeking forgiveness from God. “That’s why I…” 

“Why you ran away.” 

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“Where do we go from here?” 

His hand slips into yours. It’s becoming uncomfortably easy for him to do that. 

“Wherever you go, I go.”

There he goes again, silly boy, casually making oaths to any girl who’s nice to him.

It’s gonna get him killed someday. 

Because love kills. 

You know this, at the ripe age of nine. 

(But, love also saves. So. It all balances out.)

Yuuta softens, gradually, in your hold. He unspools himself from you and returns with your backpack and coat in his arms. Holds the arms of the coat out and helps you slide in. Grabs your hand again and leads you outside, into the rain. 

Neither of you have an umbrella. But that’s okay. 

The pitter-patter of the rain is deafening. Can’t even hear yourself think. But Yuuta is patient with you. He guides you gently over the puddles, intimately aware of your fastidiousness.

It’s okay, you think, as you step over muck.

Things are okay.

Yuuta still smells of wet earth, and still reeks of death, and still reminds you of flowers. But that’s okay, too. 

You wipe your face with your free hand, sticky with dried tears and demon drool and blood, and let the rain wash over you.  

So, yes. 

You know what love is:

It’s cold clammy hands curled around your little fist. It’s a raincoat buttoned all the way up for you when your stubby fingers fumble on the clasps. It’s a pale little boy with eyes that suck in all the light in the world. 

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this was a doozy so puh-lease consider reblogging thx bye!! // tagging: @anemptypuddingcup <33