#i was so confused and disoriented but also very sunken inside

[gayofthefae]

Throwback to(last week) when I tried to decipher Mike's inner monologue from his playlist but just ended up feeling really depressed and kinda nauseous when I got to the season 4 songs.

Say what you will, but they captured his pov in that playlist 😭

[golden-redhead]

Oumota Week 2019 - Day #1 || Stuck in a Small Space

Summary: After the game, Momota is at loss. Maybe getting stuck in an elevator with the guy he killed can actually give him some answers.

Read on AO3.

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What’s Left of Me

Public appearances are part of Momota’s new life, an unwelcome distraction from the brittle routine he’s been working on for weeks, an overall flimsy sense of security in this chaotic life of his. Wherever he goes, dozens of curious, prying eyes follow his every step, phones reaching out to capture every angle of his existence in a digital illusion of permanence and spread all over the Internet. 

His agent drags him from one interview to another, endless photoshoots, conferences, fan meetings until it leaves him drained, so impossibly drained and defeated, made to smile through it all, his lips stretched in a perpetual grin, shaking hands and waving and answering the questions the way his agent taught him to. It’s all just one big farce but it’s easier to go along with it than try to defy Team Danganronpa and their minions. He knows it would just be a losing battle, as it’s one thing that has been made perfectly clear as soon as he got successfully pulled out of the simulation, spooked and confused, barely able to coin out sentences, drugged out of his mind. 

So when he finds himself standing in the huge, luxurious lobby of the recording studio all he can do is try to distract himself with idle plans of what he’d prefer for dinner and daydreaming about a long, well-deserved nap he was planning to take once this farce is over and he’s finally allowed to go home. 

He promised his agent he would join her as soon as he finishes his cigarette, her curt, sharp nod a silent permission. He’s on his third cigarette now, the silvery smoke coiling and dancing above his head as he exhales it through his nose, trying to empty his head and forget about the responsibilities and expectations weighing on his shoulders, even if just for a moment. 

“Well, well, well,” comes a familiar voice from behind his back. “If it isn’t Momota-chan!”

Momota spins around, startled, almost choking on the smoke he’s just released from his lungs, his mouth falling open and brows shooting in surprise until they disappear, hidden by the spiky bangs that fall down on his forehead. 

“O-Ouma!” He chokes out, shaking his head as if in denial, not trusting his eyes just yet. “Since when were you—What are you doing here?”

A relaxed smile crosses Ouma’s face as he steps closer, the very image of controlled nonchalance. 

“Oh? Hasn’t Momota-chan been informed that he should be expecting my delightful presence today?”

Momota tugs at his goatee absentmindedly, trying to remember what kind of interview exactly they were supposed to have today. They all felt like a big, indistinguishable blur to him. “Uh… Should I?”

Ouma tuts with disapprobation, crossing his arms over his chest and puffing his cheeks out childishly. “Rude! Rude, Momota-chan! Does our friendship mean nothing to you?”

Momota shrugs simply and moves to put out the cigarette, promptly crushing it under his boot until all is left is a cigarette-shaped pulp. Once that’s taken care of he finally turns fully to Ouma. It’s the first time in weeks that he has a chance to take a good look at him, take in every detail, every fold of his shirt, every sticky and stained with mascara eyelash and the smudge of fluid hiding the dark bruises beneath his eyes.

He’s wearing a shiny dark suit that in the right light glistens with the faint hues of deep purple, his signature checkered scarf wrapped loosely around the narrow neck. He looks smaller in real life, somehow, childish features accented with sharp dark eyes and adorned with a sly smile that looks almost out of place on a face so young. The long strands of his plum-colored hair have been slicked back in a way that is sure to cause heart palpitations of many fans, only barely making him look more mature. Despite his midget height and endearingly full cheeks (now that Team Danganronpa took hold of his diet), Momota could almost call him handsome. Almost.  

He hasn’t had much contact with him since they were both released from the hospital, nothing more than small banter at an occasional group interview or a photoshoot that required that all participants of the fifty-third season were present, tension heavy in the air as they struggled to co-exist in the forced proximity, even if only for an hour or two. Momota would lie if he said he wasn’t curious about what happened to Ouma when the worst was over — his search history a discriminating, shameful proof of that — but he couldn’t bring himself to actually reach out to him, his insides turning into a painful knot whenever he tried, fingers hovering uselessly above the keyboard and head hollow with empty-sounding I’m sorry’s and forgive me’s that Ouma would never dignify even with a single glance, much less with a response. 

In a way, he almost wishes they had more time at the hospital — as suffocating as it was — before they’d been released into this wild, vicious world that praised them for the blood on their hands and was a blaring reminder of every bad choice, every wrong decision he’s ever made. Maybe if he had more time he would have mustered the courage. Maybe he wouldn’t be here now, guilt tugging at his insides and unvoiced apologies burning in his throat. 

The truth is, Team Danganronpa couldn’t have held them in the hospital for more than a few weeks, too busy moving on with the organization of the next season to care for those they broke already, Momota and others soon to be replaced with even more traumatized kids with hollow eyes and sunken cheeks, the memory of bloodstained walls and insidious stench of death still trapped underneath their eyelids whenever they drifted to sleep. 

Ever since he woke up from his stimulation-induced slumber, everything felt somewhat distorted, like he’s gazing at the world through the thick wall of glass, deceivingly similar to what he remembers but somehow also disturbingly different. It’s disorienting and he’s unsure how to navigate this new world in which he can’t take two steps without being pursued by a crowd of fans, many of them underaged, wrapping themselves around him and blinding him with the flash of their mobile phones, every single one of them adorned with Danganronpa-themed cases. This new, second — or third? who knows, really — life he woke up to what feels like he’s pushing through deep waters, fighting against the current, and no matter how much time has passed it doesn’t feel like he’s moving forward at all. Hours blend into days and days into weeks and nothing really changes, nothing feels like it leads to something meaningful and he almost misses the game because in some horrible, vile way it had been better than being stuck in this strange state where everything just doesn’t make sense.

However, not everything changes. Ouma’s just as boisterous and smug as he remembers him from the killing game to be even, though there’s no longer any need to pretend or hide behind his shield of carefully crafted lies and vaguely, Momota wonders what he’s overcompensating for. 

“Come on,” he says instead of voicing that thought out loud, gesturing to the elevator. “We better hurry or my agent will pluck my eyes out.”

Ouma taps a long pale finger against his chin, considering it. 

“Hm… Nah.”

Momota scowls, irritation prickling under his skin. “What do you mean ‘nah’? We are already late!”

Ouma tucks his hands at the back of his head, staring at Momota through half-lidded crystalline eyes, rocking back and forth on the heels of his feet, make-up smoothing the sharp contours of his face. He cocks his head to the side, his ear almost resting against his shoulder, a lazy grin playing on his lips.

“Since when was Momota-chan such an obedient little puppy? You do everything they say?”

Momota groans loudly. Of course nothing could be easy with Ouma fucking Kokichi around. 

“Look, I’m not in the mood for your fucking mind games. What’s this really about? You better not just be difficult for the sake of being difficult, dude.”

“Hmm, or maaaybe I just wanna see Momota-chan get his eyes plucked out?” Ouma continues to cackle, shamelessly, not at all intimidated by the annoyed pull of Momota’s eyebrows or the dirty glare he shoots him.

In theory, Momota knows he shouldn’t be bothered by Ouma’s rude remarks, he knows it’s all just a part of the game for him, an invisible wall he’s raised for protection just so he doesn’t have to expose what lies under the thick layers of lies and deceptions. In practice, though, it’s as annoying as ever and not for the first time he wishes he could understand what is happening in his head.

“Look, I’m not too thrilled about this interview either but the sooner we start, the faster it’ll be over. You coming or not?”

Ouma nods his head vigorously in mock agreement. “Oh, such wise words! Who knew Momota-chan can be so wise!”

Momota tsks, but refuses to bite. Instead, he turns back to him with a shrug and pushing his hands into his pockets heads to enter the elevator. Once there, he turns to Ouma expectantly, one eyebrow raised in an unvoiced challenge, signaling it to be the last chance to join him.

If he didn’t know better he would have sworn that he noticed a flash of… something, some foreign emotion he can’t quite name, passing through his eyes as Ouma shoots a single, almost wistful glance in the direction of the nearby stairs as if weighing his options. It disappears almost as quickly as it appeared, leaving Momota wondering whether it had even been there in the first place. 

“Ughh, fiiine,” Ouma throws his arms into the air, “I’ll go if Momota-chan insists.”

Momota doesn’t point out how at no point did he actually insist on anything and simply moves to the side to let him in. 

Ouma skips into the elevator, humming some cheerful inharmonious tune. As soon as he reaches the control panel he pushes a few buttons all at once, cackling at the annoyed frown Momota rewards him with. With a quiet whoosh the door finally closes after them, slots clicking into place as the elevator begins its slow ascent.

It doesn’t take them far, though. 

Moments later, the elevator jolts to a sudden halt with a deafening screech, the force and abruptness of it enough to send Ouma to the floor with a high-pitched, undignified yelp of shock. He slams onto the floor with a hollow bang that makes Momota wince in sympathy. The lights flicker and for a horrifying second Momota’s convinced they’ll give out completely, shrouding them in darkness. He allows himself a small sigh of relief when it doesn’t happen. 

“Uhh,” moans Ouma from the floor, sound muffled slightly, “what just happened?”

“We’re stuck,” observes Momota sounding much calmer than he feels. 

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

“Don’t ask dumb question if you don’t want dumb answers.”

“There’s no such thing as a dumb question, Momota-chan, unless you’re the one asking them.” 

Momota waves him off impatiently. “Whatever. Now shush, we need to get some help or we’re gonna be stuck here forever.”

He examines the control panel for a second, wondering what the hell are they supposed to do next. This is why I hate elevators, he thinks to himself bitterly. Fortunately, whoever designed the elevator was prepared for those kinds of situations and added the emergency button, easily distinguished from the others by its strikingly red color. Momota pushes it without thinking, stealing a quick glance at his phone, wincing when it becomes glaringly obvious that there’s no chance they’ll start the interview on time. The threat of having his eyes plucked out feels more and more real with every minute.

He waits, listening to the ringing sound that fills the elevator after he pushed the button, a sense of relief spreading over his body when someone actually answers the call. 

“Hello?”

“Uhh,” Momota starts lamely, suddenly at a loss of words. He clears his throat and tries again. “Momota Kaito here. We are, uhh, we are stuck in an elevator.”

He hurriedly explains the situation, informing the man on the other side what happened, which floor they are stuck on, how many people are in the elevator. 

He doesn’t feel very reassured when the man takes in all the information only to respond with, “We’ll see what we can do. It might take a while since we have to send someone there. Just hang in there, kid.”

With that the conversation is over, the voice on the other side gone. Momota runs a hand over his face, letting his eyes flutter shut for a second as he tries to make some sense out of all of this, understand how he went from calmly smoking his cigarette, minding his own business, to being here, trapped with Ouma at his side. He can feel Ouma’s amused stare boring into him from where he sat crossed-legged against the opposite wall, surely deriving great pleasure from watching his anguish.  

Of all the people he could have been stuck in an elevator with it had to be the guy he killed. 

He grips the phone in his other hand tighter and after a second of hesitation, he reluctantly types a quick text to his agent and then promptly turns the sound and vibration off, not looking forward to the angry stream of furious messages he’s undoubtedly going to get. 

“Great,” he says sarcastically, leaning heavily against the wall and sliding slowly down its length until he lands on his butt. “So we’re trapped here. You happy now?”

Ouma beams at him. “Very!”

“Seriously, why are you like this,” he looks up to glower at the ceiling as if expecting an answer from above. “Did you have to push all those buttons?” 

Ouma nods his head, a solemn, serious expression on his face. He presses a hand to his chest, just inches above his heart, his words dripping with false sincerity. “Yes, absolutely, my sweet, naive Momota-chan. I was testing if the elevator is safe and clearly it’s not! Who knows how many lives we saved by sacrificing ourselves. It was a brave and necessary deed that I do not regret.”

Momota groans, reaching for his neck to rub at the sensitive muscles, trying to dissolve the tension there. 

“Save it for the cameras,” he murmurs distractedly. 

He shifts a little, looking for a better position on the cold, hard floor. He’s partly glad he doesn’t have to be trapped at that interview, bombarded with a never-ending stream of intrusive, probing questions but being stuck here with Ouma is hardly an improvement.

“So, Momota-chan,” Ouma chirps almost conversationally, “now that we are all alone is there something you wanna tell me? Confess your undying love, maybe?”

Momota’s brows furrow and he fidgets slightly, suddenly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the intense gaze of Ouma’s resolute eyes. He has no idea what he could be possibly getting at, but he also knows for a fact that Ouma is far more perceptive than most people give him credit for (if his batshit, absolutely insane plan from the game is any indication) and he’s not too into the idea of falling victim to it (again), not when there’s no way for him to bolt out of here if things go dire. 

“Nothing,” comes a stiff response. And then, after a moment’s hesitation, he adds: “Don’t start, Ouma, not when we’re both stuck here.”

The words sound almost like a warning. Unsurprisingly, Ouma pouts and lets out an offended huff. “Momota-chan’s not fun.”

Momota lets a single bark of a laugh at that and shakes his head, leaning against the wall, its surface cold against his back. Fun. What a funny word. Wasn’t it fun, posing as the source of entertainment for millions of people all around the globe? Wasn’t it fun, hacking blood all over the floor and getting poisoned and dying on screen just so people can cross one more person out and debate whether he was a hero or a martyr? He sure as hell hopes that at least someone got some fun out of it, because he certainly can’t say it for himself and so he feels like he’s under no obligation to be fun now. 

The familiar anger flames at the pit of his stomach, raw and fierce, until he stiffens it the same way he always does, at least when in public, the ache inside subduing but not going away completely. It’s fine, though. He’ll just have to smash a few plates once he comes back home or something. 

He clears his throat, absentmindedly rubbing his arm on the spot where the arrow pierced the skin. There’s no scar left, no evidence to prove that whatever transpired in that hangar was anything more than a vivid illusion crafted by the skilled hands of corrupted technicians and death-crazed writers.

Sometimes, he almost wishes that there was something, anything, a proof of all the suffering they were subjected to, something palpable and permanent. Because maybe if there was they would put a stop to it, maybe then they’d stop this beast that consumes everything on its way just to please the masses and uphold the faux image of the peaceful society, too absorbed with children dying on screen to realize how wrong it all is. 

It’s an ugly, rotten thought, one that he can’t help but entertain every now and then.

He shakes his head, as if trying to banish those intrusive thoughts, and focuses on his breathing the way his therapist taught him, grounding himself, centering in the present until his thoughts have a chance to slip into the dangerous area that he spends the best part of his days suppressing because nothing good could possibly ever come from them. 

“Sure, whatever you say.”

Ouma huffs some more and perches his chin on his knees, wrapping his arms around them, tightly.

“Sooo,” he eyes Momota up and down curiously, “wanna play a game?”

Momota snorts. “A game? With you? Pass.”

Ouma purses his lips, “You are killing me here, Momo-chan.”

“Not for the first time and not for the last time,” he responds without thinking and then clasps his hand over his mouth, realizing too late what he’s just said, the horrid implications coming to mind all at one. “Shit… I didn’t mean it like that.”

Ouma simply hums to himself, unimpressed. “Sure you didn’t.”

After that, they drift into silence. Momota throws his head back, leaning against the wall more comfortably, and tries to think about random astronomy facts, little curiosities they packed his head up with, even though he has no recollection of ever learning any of it. Sometimes he ponders whether he should hate astronomy, hate that foreign being they formed him into, stripping him of who he was before any of that. Strangely, this artificially implanted passion becomes a distraction, his escape when everything becomes too much for him to handle and he feels like falling down, face first into the unknown. It’s a rare sense of comfort, something familiar among all those things that make no sense to him in this grotesque, strange world that lost its charm. Ironically, sometimes it feels like he’s been much more happy back in the game, dying and lying through his teeth, struggling to hide the bloodstained shirts and make it through another day without crumbling in defeat. At least back then he had a purpose. Now? He has no idea what he’s supposed to do now.  

Every day is like learning how to walk, breathe and exist again, going through the motions without registering them, struggling between the constant switching between disocciating and hyperawareness, never quite reaching that normal state of in between. 

He avoids Shuichi and Maki, awkwardly deflecting whenever they try to press, the excuses piling up until he runs out of them and doesn’t even try anymore. They pretend it’s fine and in turn he pretends that it’s enough. The two of them are much closer now that they went through hell to the very end, together, bonded by whatever it is they thought that they feel for him and he tries to learn how to be happy with that. 

There’s not much that he can do, really, simply enduring every day like a man on a mission. One step followed by another, pushing through every evening until he can cross out another day in his calendar and start this little game anew, no finish line in sight.

It’s an involuntary, hushed whimper that pulls him out of his thoughts and he blinks, disoriented and half-slumped against the wall. He straightens up, trying to center himself back to reality and locate the strange, alien sound. His eyes slip to the side only to shoot open, round and alert.

“What the—Ouma?!”

The other teen doesn’t respond, doesn’t even acknowledge Momota’s concerned shout, his quick, shallow breaths unnaturally loud in the small space of their shared elevator. There’s a worrying, rosy blush that tints his cheeks and nose, evident on his otherwise deathly pale face, bangs damp with sweat. He’s trembling, little tremors wrecking through his bony limbs.

“O-Ouma?” Momota tries again, shuffling closer, panic spreading through his veins, all senses at a full alert. “Hey, you okay, dude?”

“Ah… hahahaha… g-got you, Momota-chan,” Ouma laughs breathlessly, one hand pressed against his heart, grasping at the creased, thin material of his shirt, his chest heaving and eyes wide, burning feverishly when he lifts them up to try to focus on Momota but instead looking through him, unseeing. “Y-You worried?”

“Fucking—Yes, of course I am worried!” he yells and then immediately chastises himself when Ouma flinches at the volume. “Shit, sorry.”

He anxiously sorts through the symptoms, struggling to connect the pieces and figure out what is happening, how to help. He’s always been a man of action, unable to just sit and do nothing, letting others suffer in silence. He hovers above Ouma indecisively, torn between the desperate need to help and paralysing fear of making things worse. The painful knot in his stomach continues to tighten and his fingers dig into the skin of Ouma’s thin, bony shoulder when the realization finally dawns upon him. 

A panic attack. 

He swallows thickly, shocked and confused, eyes wide as for a long —too long —moment he just stares in mute horror, a faint nervousness tingling at the walls of his stomach. 

There’s a sense of familiarity that one develops from spending so much time around so many broken people, picking up the shattered pieces of who they used to be and struggling to piece it together without the original pattern, relying on the vague memories and wishful thinking alone. It’s a process of trial and error.

So it makes sense that what he does next is that, too. Trial and error. 

“Ouma? Ouma, hey, listen to me,” he shifts closer, his grip on Ouma’s arm growing steadier, more sure. He slips his fingers into his other hand and squeezes, once, hoping that it comes off as at least somewhat comforting even if his hands are clammy and he can feel the panic slowly rising in his chest. “It’s gonna be okay. Just… just fucking breathe, man.”

He pats Ouma on the back awkwardly, his other hand drawing senseless patterns into his open palm with his thumb, the same way his grandma used to do when he was little, frightened by the stories about children-eating monsters building a nest under his bed. Of course, in the end neither the monsters nor his grandma turned out to be real, but it’s not a thought he wants to linger on for too long.

He brings his attention back to the boy at his side.

Gone is the fierce, unstoppable force that is Ouma Kokichi, replaced by a ghostly-looking scrawny boy who doesn’t look his age at all. In that moment, he reminds him way too much of that person he saw back then in the hangar, all bloody lips and broken pieces tucked behind the thorny wall of lies and hiding behind a healthy dose of frighteningly convincing sinister smiles. It’s like reliving those moments again with a striking clarity, everything coming back to him all at once, hitting him with a force of a speeding truck. His whole body feels like someone’s pulling at a raw nerve, a soaring, burning sensation that drowns out everything else. 

He pulls Ouma closer, unable to offer any more comfort than that, just letting him shiver, huddled at his side. 

He feels inadequate. 

Useless. 

He’s spent hours and days and weeks struggling to make things better, fueled by the naive belief that as long as he believes in himself and the people he chose to trust he can do anything he can put his mind to. Sometimes it feels like there’s not going to be any better, like he’s stuck here and now, just like they are both stuck in this elevator, trapped in between the floors and refusing to budge.   

They lose the concept of time, trapped in their little metal cell and eventually Ouma stills in his half-embrace, his eyes no longer as glassy and absent as before, the trembling gone except for his hands which he curls into fists when he notices Momota staring down at them. His breaths still come in quiet, shallow puffs but he’s no longer on the verge of hyperventilating which Momota decides to take as a good sign.

Momota waits a few more minutes, anxious, but ultimately the curiosity triumphs over uncertainty and with a gentle nudge to Ouma’s side, the words escape his lips before he could bite his tongue. “Hey, you feeling better now? Wanna talk about it?”

Big, doe-like eyes find his, dull and blank until he looks at Momota, really looks at him, and something in them shifts, a different kind of glint when a strange kind of resolve seems to set in. Momota isn’t sure what it is. All he knows is that he doesn’t like the sudden change in his demeanor, doesn’t like the way something familiar and cruel flashes through his eyes as he blinks back the last traces of panic and replaces it with steel and indifference. 

“Gonta tried to commit suicide,” Ouma says, apropos of nothing. “Did you know that?”

Momota swallows thickly, a sense of dread wrapping around his insides, squeezing. “W-what?”

Ouma giggles, a quiet and breathy little noise, just at the verge of hysterics. The sound of it sends a shudder down the length of Momota’s spine and not for the first time he wonders how Ouma does that, replaces one mask with another like it’s a child’s game, snaps out of one role and slips into another within seconds. Going from a full on panic attack to… whatever it is now can’t be normal. It isn’t normal. 

 “Yeah, the good ol’ bug boy couldn’t handle the pressure. He’s fine, though. Found him on time or something.”

A wave of relief crashes into Momota and if he wasn’t sitting already he would have felt his knees go weak, giving out under his weight. 

“Jesus. Don’t scare me like that.”

“Isn’t that cool, though? I would have gotten him killed twice! Wouldn’t that be suuuper impressive, Momota-chan?”

Momota’s brows crinkle as he struggles to understand whatever twisted logic Ouma is using. “What does any of it have to do with you?”

“Weeell, it is perfectly obvious, my beloved Momota-chan. What’s there to not understand?”

“Humor me.”

Ouma makes a face.

“Uh. Fine, have it your way. It’s really not that hard, though. You know, brain is a muscle, Momota-chan, you should exercise it more.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not true,” mutters Momota under his breath.

“Anyways, obviously Gonta-chan has been so deeply affected by how cruelly I manipulated him that it drove him to take his own life.”

Momota’s whole body goes numb, a suffocating, cold feeling spreading through his limbs.

‘You can’t possibly believe tha—”

“Huh?” Ouma stares at him, a long, pale finger pressed against his lower lip sweetly, eyes round and innocent. “Isn’t that what happened, though?”

“Stop,” Momota manages through gritted teeth. 

“Oh please, Momota-chan,” Ouma laughs sarcastically, an ugly bitter undertone in his voice resurfacing. He raises from his crouching position on the floor and takes one, two unsteady steps forward, his stance somewhere between bold and provocative as he sways slightly in place, worn out muscles unable to carry his weight. He turns back to Momota, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the lone light-bulb hanging above. “I think we’ve been through too much to still lie to ourselves. I manipulated you, didn’t I? Just like I manipulated Gonta.”

Momota opens his mouth to protest, to object to whatever nonsense Ouma’s spurting this time, but the words get stuck in his throat as he realizes his brain is blank, unable to come up with an adequate response. Ouma uses the opportunity to continue. 

“I made you a murderer,” he spits the last word pointedly, almost as if it’s poisonous on his tongue, and Momota’s resolve falters even more when the gaze of his eyes pierces right through him, its intensity preventing him from tearing his eyes away. 

“I turned their beloved hero into a cold-hearted murderer,” repeats Ouma for emphasis, violet eyes bright and unblinking, lips twisted in a rapacious sneer. Now that he started the words won’t stop spilling as if some kind of dam has been broken and there’s no stopping it now. “Was it fun, Momota-chan? Did you enjoy putting me in my place? Did it feel gooood when you punched me? Did it feel good when you killed me?”

“Don’t say that,” Momota finally finds his voice, weak and raspy, his head shaking in a way that feels way more automatic than it should, lacking conviction. “Oh my god, Ouma, why would you even say that?”

“Well, isn’t that right?” Ouma questions, letting out a snort of dismissive laughter. “Are you calling me a liar, Momota-chan?”

“No,” Momota asserts weakly, his thoughts swarning in confusion. Ouma won't let him think, he won't let him gather his thoughts, the ball is in his court now and he steers the game however he likes, dragging Momota along, whether he wants it or not. “I’m not calling you a liar but it’s not—”

“Sooo everything I said is true, right?”

“God, Ouma… You know it’s not that easy. You know it doesn’t work like that.”

Ouma blinks up at him in pretend confusion, head tilted and lips frozen in a condescending smile. 

“Like what?”

“It wasn’t you. Okay? They made you do that, they made all of us do that and no one here is to blame.”

Ouma laughs in stunned dismay. “So what? Does it mean we are some naive little babies that don’t have to take responsibility for our actions because we were—-what? Brainwashed? Manipulated? Is that what you’re saying?”

“W-wha—?!” Momota sputters, both nose and forehead wrinkling in confusion. “No? But like… None of that happened. It wasn’t real.”

“Aww, what a lovely sentiment, Momota-chan,” Ouma coos, batting his eyelashes. “So when you killed me you knew it’s not for realsies?”

He doesn’t let Momota answer, a sharp, over-dramatic gasp drowning out Momota’s hurried explanation, his eyes welling with crystalline tears: “And you didn’t tell me? How dare you, Momota-chan! And here I thought I was dying for real.”

Momota fidgets, suddenly very uncomfortable, jaw clenching. His eyes dart from one corner of the elevator to another, looking for some kind of exit that maybe they overlooked. 

“Can you like… Stop talking about dying? And… About me killing you?”

Ouma wipes the fake tears away with the verge of his sleeve, the dark material now smudged with whatever he used to mask the shadows under his eyes. He pays it no mind. 

“Oh? Does it bother you, Momota-chan? Why? I mean, isn’t that what happened? And what you just said wasn’t, quote and unquote, real?”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” grumbles Momota, glaring defiance. He struggles to form sentences, knowing full well that any argument with Ouma is really a fight of wits, an impossible attempt to try to keep up with him.

“I mean… Sure, it happened. And yeah, it was absolutely fucking awful. But we weren’t like, us, y’know. And before you interrupt me again,” he flashes Ouma a sharp glare, raising his finger warningly in a ‘it’s my turn talking’ gesture, “yes, it was us. But we had no memory of who we are and had to watch our friends —yes, friends, don’t even try to argue that,” he adds quickly, seeing as Ouma opens his mouth, undoubtedly ready to disprove that point, ”die horribly. It’s enough to fuck anyone up. We were just trying to survive. Nothing wrong with that.” 

Momota braces himself for the upcoming counter-arguments, knowing how relentless and stubborn Ouma can be, determined to confront and challenge every point he made until Momota’s no longer sure what they were talking about. 

Not this time, though. 

He simply looks at Momota flatly, in a way that is as unlike him as it’s physically possible, completely throwing Momota off his game with the pure unpredictability of it.

“Whatever. Sometimes you really are naive, Momota-chan.” He says it matter of factly, not a jab at his intelligence nor a compliment, just a simple statement. 

“Uh… Sure. Same to you,” Momota says dryly, not truly understanding what he’s getting at, much to Ouma’s amusement if the patronizing smirk he flashes him is any indication. He sits back down, in the opposite corner from Momota, seemingly disinterested in continuing that discussion, as if he’s just decided that it’s not worth it anymore and chose to let Momota feed himself with whatever delusions he believed in.

He doesn’t understand Ouma. He’s a fucking enigma, escaping any definitions or even basic common self and Momota always finds himself struggling trying to keep up with him, with his twisted thought patterns and double-meanings behind every action or sentence or smile. 

 Still, when Momota stares at him he thinks he almost understands.

He thinks back to Ouma’s brief panic attack, to how under certain angles, if the light falls just right, being trapped here feels just like back then, the metal ceiling and floor of the elevator deceptively similar to the cold, smooth surface of the hydraulic press, looming from every side, ready to begin its descent at any moment. The press is a common guest in his dreams, staring him as he stares right back, reflecting galaxies he’ll never see with his own two eyes. In his dreams, ridiculously saturated specks of pink spread over it in a poor imitation of stars. 

He considers what Ouma said before, the part about killing Gonta twice, the dreadful implication of him being the reason of Gonta’s doom. What does it make him then? Was he to Ouma what Ouma was to Gonta? Was he the one who ultimately, unintentionally led him to his grave, both figuratively and literally? 

He knows, logically, that Maki would have never gone to the hangar if it wasn’t for him, no one would have been hurt if it wasn’t for him. No killing plan would have been needed. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, fists clenching and unclenching helplessly at his sides.

No.

That’s wrong and he can’t think like that. 

It’s tempting, so incredibly tempting, to just let his mind slide into that dark area and accept things at face value, to let the guilt spread like an infection until he’s dying again, waiting for his end. He’s good at it, after all. 

But it’s not an answer and on some level he knows, he knows it very well that sooner or later he’ll have to face it, get over himself and change something, because deep down he is a survivor and whatever happened in the game was a choice.  

They —all of them— were nothing more than a product of this twisted world, driven by a clever program and a well-planned script in the hands of the wrong people. Back then, they had no other choice than to follow the scenario someone else designed for them but it’s no longer true, they are no longer part of that sick, warped game and they don’t have to play by its rules.  

Momota licks his lips. Takes a deep breath.

“You don’t have to believe me but I guess what I’m trying to say is… None of that shit is our fault, Ouma. And the best thing we can do now is try to move on. You are not responsible for what they made you. All that matters is what you’re gonna do from now on or whatever.”

Ouma pulls his knees closer to his chest and snorts into them, amusement gleaming in his eyes when he tilts his head to get a better look at Momota’s face, his own partly obscured by his dark bangs. 

“If you say so~!” he sing-songs. It sounds dismissive.

Momota sighs deeply, dragging a hand over his face tiredly. “I know that deep down you know I’m right, even you can’t be that pessimistic. I sure as hell know that’s how I felt. Can’t you be honest with yourself for once?”

“Silly Momota-chan, I’ve always been honest with myself. Anyways, that’s your shtick, not mine. Momota-chan reaaally should stop projecting on little ol’ me. And I’ll have you know that I’m a realist. You’re just so disgustingly idealistic that anyone who has even a slightly different opinion than you looks like a pessimist in comparison.”

Irritation prickles under his skin. Talking with Ouma sometimes feels like going in circles, beginning and end blurred into one, replaying the same arguments time and time again, never reaching a conclusion. “Fine. Let’s say you’re right, I don’t feel like fucking fighting,” he concedes, resigned. “Why can’t you be honest with me then?”

To his utmost surprise, Ouma actually seems to consider the question. He regards him with a sharp gaze of strikingly clear, critical eyes, squinting slightly. Then, he shrugs, looking away. 

“You have yet to give me a reason to.”

It’s an answer that’s vastly different from what Momota would have preferred to hear but in a way it’s almost hopeful, an unspoken promise. 

They fall into silence, no more words needed for now, Momota lost deep in his own thoughts. 

No, things aren’t the way he wishes them to be but with time he wants to believe he’ll be able to forgive himself, let go of this crippling guilt that eats at him during the days and nights. It’s funny, knowing that Ouma carries his own guilt that’s not unlike his. It’s easy to regard Ouma as this mysterious being that’s above everything and everyone else, existing in his own bubble that Momota’s never had access to. The thing is, he really wants to, though, for better or for worse. 

He still feels like he’s been opened raw, foreign hands tugging at his insides, poking and prodding in places they don’t belong to, leaving him spent and exposed in a way that has a bit too much to do with emotional vulnerability. But there’s something about Ouma, whether they are fighting or arguing or simply sharing a moment of imposed silence, that makes him think that maybe someone understands in a way no one else ever would. 

He wants something better for Ouma. And… if he wants something better for Ouma he should also want something better for himself. No matter how much trouble he has admitting that. The words would never make it past his lips but it’s alright. Baby steps. 

Maybe Ouma is his answer, his way to repair the things he’s managed to mess up along the way. Maybe if he can help him, repay for all the wrong he did… Maybe he would find a way to help himself, too. One day.  

Unexpectedly, a plan starts to form in his head and for the first time in ages he doesn’t feel like dying anymore. 

Momota takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm his frayed nerves. He smiles at Ouma, hopeful. “How about we stop fighting each other and work together for a change?”

Ouma furrows his brows, sending him a bored, disinterested glance. “Haven’t we done that working together part already?”

Momota blinks at him, surprised. “Huh? When?”

Ouma arches an eyebrow, staring at him incredulously. When Momota still doesn’t follow he lets out a loud, exasperated sigh and rolls his eyes as if Momota is a great source of suffering for him. “You just asked me not to talk about it like, five minutes ago. Geez, make up your mind, Momota-chan.”

“Oh… Right. That.” 

Momota smile falters at the vividly real memory of the hydraulic press that flashes before his eyes, face dropping. He wonders if these memories will ever fade, at least a little, so it feels more like a bad, worn-out-through-years dream and not something that would swallow him at any moment, bring him all the way back to where he started. 

He perks up moments later, though, punching his fists together, eyes bright with confidence and new-found resolution. 

“That’s in the past, though! I’m talking now. Just you and me. What d’ya say?”

Ouma folds his hands in the air and puts his chin on them, a weary expression on his face. “What are you even proposing, Momota-chan?”

‘I don’t know yet! Or, like… I can’t tell you yet. But I’ll figure it out. I’ll find a way to show Team Danganronpa that we are so much more than they thought. They might have controlled us in the game but now that we are out they have no control over us. We are our own people now, so... Fuck the contracts, fuck them. They say that your happiness is the best revenge so that’s what we’re gonna fucking do!”

Ouma blinks at him a few times and then wrinkles his nose in distaste, as if he’s just smelled something highly unpleasant.

“Wow, sometimes I forget how dumb Momota-chan really is,” he comments and relishes in the glimpse of offended fury that flashes through Momota’s eyes at the insult. It’s one thing in their messed up lives that would never get old.

“I’m not dumb. And if you keep saying that I’m gonna call off my offer!”

“Oh, please do! I’m sure there’s a ton of volunteers fighting to take my place,” comes Ouma’s wry response and he almost cackles out loud at the faint blush of offended fury that coats Momota’s cheeks and stretches to the tips of his ears. 

“I fucking hate you.”

“Aww, I love you too,” Ouma chirps with unabashed glee and even has the audacity to wink at him. 

Momota groans, the sound bouncing off the walls, and hides his face in his hands. 

“You are impossible.”

“Thank you, I try~!”

Momota mumbles something inaudible under his nose and Ouma uses the occasion to shuffle closer to him. 

“But you know what?” he questions humorously, trying to peek through the hands still splayed over Momota’s face. “Hey, Momota-chan, stop ignoring me, I have something important to tell you!”

Two fingers move slightly to the side and a lone, mauve eye glares appears, glaring defiance.

“What?”

“My life’s been actually suuuper boring lately,” complains Ouma loudly. “So I guess I could use some entertainment.”

The eye blinks at him, widening slightly.

“Wait… so you’re in?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m in.”

“Oh.”

Momota lets his hands fall down, revealing a stunned, hopeful look on his face. “Wait, for real?”

“Geez, Momota-chan, how many times do I have to say it?” Ouma rolls his eyes impatiently, drumming his fingers against the metal floor. “Yes, I’m in. Someone has to be there to take the blackmail photos and post them all over the Internet when you inevitably make a complete fool out of yourself.”

Momota’s brightens with a smile, so happy that he turns a deaf ear to that last comment.

“Great,” he beams at Ouma and for the first time in days, weeks, maybe years, it doesn’t feel forced. “You’re not gonna regret it!”

Ouma sighs deeply. “I already do.”

Momota’s about to sprout some more motivational nonsense about revenge and happiness and his own, private theories about what Ouma needs or doesn’t need, but before he can do that, someone pries the door to the elevator open, momentarily blinding both of them with the light that breaks inside. 

When they finally get freed, Momota’s immediately swept away by his agent, yelling in tune with Ouma’s, something about schedules and programs and ruined plans and there’s some sense of deep satisfaction, located somewhere in his chest, pulsating warmly when he realizes that for the first time in a really long time he finally has some resemblance of control over his own life, something that Team Danganronpa couldn’t possibly take away from him.

[sarkastically]

Fight, or Flight, or Freeze

(Runaways Christmas fic. This is, again, a mishmash of TV and comic canon. This is not in the same AU as the ongoing series. This is just, basically, a one-shot drabble that got out of hand. Warning for mentions of child abuse and self-esteem issues.)

Another thing about him that surprises people: Chase Stein doesn’t really like holidays. Growing up they were always haphazard, dangerous times of the year. Whereas on a normal weekday, he could count on his father being busy with work, holidays offered an insecurity, a doubt. Where would his father be? What mood would he be in? What would he break, the dishes or something inside Chase, physical or emotional? The best ones, by far, were always the ones when Victor had to travel for something, somewhere--Chase stopped asking when he was seven because it didn’t matter where he was so much as it mattered that he was out of the house--and it was just him and his mom, using whatever holiday it might be to actually celebrate his father's absence. 

Holidays, Christmas in particular, were always loaded, fraught with traps. Victor liked to buy him things he knew Chase didn’t want or like. Victor would buy him things he wanted him to be interested in and then wait for the inevitable way that Chase’s face would fall, always too expressive, never fully controlled by him, to berate him, to lash out and call him selfish, ungrateful, spoiled. A waste of space. A waste of time. A waste of the precious Stein genes. And Chase would hang his head (so that his face would not give him away even more) and clench his hands into fists on his knees and say nothing while his mother pointedly walked out of the room to check on what was cooking or powder her nose or be anywhere other than there, protecting him.

Holidays were a battleground in the Stein house. Chase still wears the wounds, thinks he can hear the canons go off when he starts awake on Christmas morning, heart pounding, covered in a cold sweat. He can hear the music through the walls, high, bright, festive, all silent nights and decked halls. It’s louder than the rush of blood in his ears as he fights to slow his breathing down, runs a hand through his hair, wild from tossing and turning. Chase has never dreamed of sugar plums only black eyes and a voice that gets so loud it drowns out the rest of the world. 

When the others mentioned putting together Christmas, Chase had just shrugged, hands in pockets, voicing neither assent nor dissent. Gert had, as politely as possible, reminded them that she was Jewish but followed it up with the fact that it didn’t matter to her what they did, not really, which was probably because of the way that Molly had perked up at the mention of Christmas. So it happened. He let it happen. All around him. A tree, lights, tinsel, stockings, and wrapped packages that started showing up from nowhere. They don’t really have money to buy presents so he’s not sure what’s happening unless people are just wrapping up random crap they’re finding in the rooms of their sunken dwelling, which is possible. Alex manages to hack their way into enough cash for food and clothing, but there’s not the budget for gifts. 

Chase doesn’t want anything anyway, wouldn’t be able to keep the trepidation off his face when tearing into the wrapping paper, wouldn’t want to hurt the feelings of anyone brave enough to give him something. It wouldn’t be their fault, and it wouldn’t be his, but the reaction, he thinks, would be enough to drive a wedge, to raise questions he doesn’t want to answer. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about what to get the others because he has, long and hard, on nights when he cannot sleep, which are plentiful, but it’s not in his power to do so, and he has seen, firsthand, how a moment of joy at giving can turn into a nightmare of consequence. It’s hard to live with. It’s hard to face again. Even though he knows none of them would react the way his father would, it’s hard. It’s not something he can just leave behind like his house and all his things. It’s burned into his skin and his mind and his soul, a brand as unforgiving as his last name, as his DNA. 

An afternoon spent at the mall when he was seven, still young enough to believe in the idea of Santa, still young enough for hope and wishes. His mother holding his hand, drifting through the crowds of people, so many of them stopping his mother to tell her what a darling little boy she had, and his mother smiling tightly, tightly, making sure he kept his jacket on because there were bruises down his arms from his father grabbing him. The Santa booth in the middle of the mall, and Chase begging to ask, willing to stand in the line for as long as it took.

“What do you want for Christmas, little boy?”

And the desire to say, “Not to be a Stein” held back in favor of asking for a basketball because what if. What if Santa was in league with his parents? What if Santa told on him? And worse, what if he asked and Santa couldn’t help?

Chase pushes out of the door and into the hallway, bleary, feeling disoriented and wrong, almost runs right into Gert who is aimlessly oddly right there, bright as ever with her fading purple hair and dark roots, big glasses not doing anything to hide her wide eyes, wearing a Hannukah sweater that is slightly too big such that it hangs over her hands, reaches almost to her knees, which are bare as though she is wearing the sweater as a dress. Like this, she looks safe, and Chase remembers a holiday spent with the Yorkes when his parents were both on a work trip. There were candles. There was singing. No one cried. No one screamed. He slept through the night.

Gert looks at him and her expression is open and worried, gentle, but he cannot stop the way he flinches when she reaches out to him. She sees it and stops, hand in midair for a moment before she lowers it back to her side. “Chase, are you okay? You look.” She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to. 

He can imagine what he looks like, flushed, sweating, caught in a perpetual war between fight, flight, and freeze. The latter used to win the most. He hated it. Still hates it, that feeling of powerlessness, that inability to act. He promises himself, not for the first time, that he will not freeze when the others need him, though he cannot say the same for himself, alone.

“Just a bad dream,” he says because she’s still standing there, looking at him, assessing him the way she does everyone, studying him. Chase is sure that she is cataloging flaws, wishes he knew a way to distract her because he would rather not be an insect on a pin, squirming, for Gert to see. Once you lose so much face, it’s impossible to get it back, and he. He would like for Gert to think he is something more than nothing.

“I don’t like Christmas,” he says, unbidden, unprompted. It just falls out of his mouth, flat. 

“I remember,” Gert’s voice is gentle, the voice he has heard her use to comfort Molly, and she pushes her glasses up, twists her hands together, fidgets with her sweater, all those tiny little motions that are Gert’s tells when she is anxious.

Any other time, Chase would let them go, but he is already so off-center, so frayed, that he cannot take the motion, and he reaches to catch them. Gert’s hands are surprisingly soft for someone who seems to be attempting to tear down society on her own. Once he has them, she does not struggle, does not try to take them back, lets him hold them. 

He doesn’t remember telling Gert that he doesn’t like Christmas but also cannot find the voice to ask her for details, just looks at her hands in his. They are small, but he knows how strong they are because this is Gert. 

“Do you remember that year you stayed with us during Hannukah?” 

Chase nods.

“You told me then. That you didn’t like Christmas.”

He doesn’t remember that part of it but then sometimes Chase’s memory is full of blank spots that he doesn’t attempt to uncover because he’s afraid of what might be lurking underneath.

“You didn’t say anything when the others suggested it. I thought maybe you had changed your mind. If I’d thought it would bother you, I would have suggested we skip it.”

“No, it’s. It’s fine. That would have been unnecessary.” And too much. Too much trouble to go to for his comfort. No sense making the rest of them suffer just to put him at ease. They’ve been through so much this year, they deserve something. They deserve Christmas even if it does make his blood run cold.

Gert sighs like he has asked her to move the moon, but he doesn’t ask why she’s perturbed. Chase has learned over the years that those kinds of questions will be answered at length, and he doesn’t really have the wherewithal to listen to it properly right now. 

“If I remember correctly,” she takes a step towards him, careful, and she has not taken her hands back from where they remain in his, where he is running his own fingers down the lengths of hers because it is soothing, “you liked the singing.”

Chase blinks at her, confused, and he can only imagine how dumb he probably looks in this moment, how unlike anything she’d like. 

“When you were at our house during Hannukah. You liked the singing.”

“I liked you singing.” It’s out of his mouth before he can stop it, this bold, brash truth. Fight, or flight, or freeze. This is none of those. This is Chase undone by truth and honesty and the softness that is Gert when she allows herself to stop fighting the world.

She blushes, and he smiles, just a little because it makes her glow. “Thanks,” she says, though it is hesitant, and he wonders if part of her thinks he is joking.

He understands why she would think that, but he is never joking when he compliments her even when he does it poorly.

“Anyway, I could, um, teach you a song. If you wanted.”

“I don’t sing very well.” He does, in fact, sing extremely poorly, which Gert already knows.

“That’s okay.” Said with enough sincerity that he believes it. “I just thought you might like it.”

What he likes is the feel of her close, the warmth of her hands in his, the way her eyes are concerned. What is likes is her. There. With him. What do you want for Christmas, Chase? he asks himself, and the answer is clear, the answer is obvious. He wants someone who cares about him. He wants someone who gives a shit. 

He wants her.

What he wants is, again, something out of his league, something that cannot be bought or wrapped or exchanged. Something that cannot be wished into being like asking for his father to be nicer or better or kind. What he wants is something he doesn’t understand how to get, something he probably doesn’t deserve. Fight, or flight, or freeze. Chase Stein is so often frozen right down to the core of himself that he sometimes wonders whether anything is there to offer except ice.

If he was anything other than a coward, maybe he would say at least one of these things to her, but he is a coward so he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Okay. Teach me a song.”

Gert sings, Chase attempts to. Somewhere during it all, they end up sitting on the floor of the hallway, across from each other, and he is still holding her hands. Half the time, he just listens to her, watches her, and Gert pretends not to notice, but he notices it every time her voice shakes or her cheeks get warm or her hands twitch a little in his, anxious, which makes him hold them tighter, shift closer to her. They are knee to knee, but he keeps leaning forward, closer, as though he can disappear into the song, into the way her voice lilts up, the loveliness of it. He has missed this, her voice like this instead of biting, tossing quips. He loves those, too, but this is something else, so much brighter, the softer side of the girl he has known forever. 

“Maybe next year, we can celebrate Hannukah instead,” he says when she stops singing, and he has given up the pretense of trying to. He doesn’t even question why he assumes there will be a next year. He needs there to be a next year. He needs this family. Even if they aren’t in this slowly sinking mansion in the ground, he needs them all, especially Gert soft and steel at the same time, singing as easily as she mocks.

“That might be a hard sell. But,” she twines her fingers through his, not for the first time, hopefully not for the last, “we could do both.”

Chase thinks about giving up Christmas, about giving up all the other holidays that are like millstones around his neck, hairshirts on his back. He wonders about replacing them with other things, if it would even make a difference. “I don’t like Christmas,” he says, the words small, his voice small, the way he feels, small, and young and waiting for something terrible. Most children waited for Santa, presents, reindeer. Chase waited for yelling, breaking, pain, disappointment.

“I know.” When she lets go of his hand and reaches out to touch his cheek, he does not flinch away. He doesn’t realize that he’s crying until she brushes the tears away. “They’ve ruined a lot of things. It’s okay.”

Chase wonders what their parents have ruined for Gert, how he can set it right because he wants to. “Thanks. For this.” His voice sounds wet and tight, it reminds him of his mother’s fake smiles and her pretense that they were happy, all of it exhausting.

Her hand on his face has not moved; it is warm. Chase thinks it might be warm enough to soak through to those cold, frozen parts of him that will not move anymore. “No big deal,” she says casually as though she has given him a dollar instead of sitting in the hall with him, singing to him, holding his hands, calming him down little by little so that he feels more like himself now, less like a shaking child. If it weren’t for the way her voice hitches a little at the end, he would almost believe her. But her eyes on his face are searching as he draws closer, and her gaze lingers on his lips more than once before skating back up to meet his own. 

Maybe it is just her way of memorizing and taking in everything. Maybe it is something else. He wants it to be something else. “No, Gert, it’s.” He swallows. “It’s more than you think it is. It means a lot. It means.” He doesn’t know how to broach the subject more fully, isn’t sure about spilling all the years of secrets, pulling out the scars and receipts to show her. Gert is strong, yes, but is she strong enough for this? He doesn’t know. 

“People get sad around the holidays. It’s a statistical fact. There have been multiple studies done on the subject.”

She’s not done talking, he can tell by the way she tilts her head that she is about to launch into a diatribe complete with sources, and it’s rude to cut her off, but she’s beautiful and he kisses her. There’s a moment when she freezes and he thinks this is it, the universe will end. Gert will hate him, and he will become ice and shatter and blow away. Then she kisses him back, and everything inside of him melts in the face of the wave of heat.

This is another thing about him that surprises people, that surprises even himself when it blooms out in full force at the touch of her lips: Chase Stein is in love with Gert Yorkes.

[edema--ruh]

First of all: damn 7 years... you go girl Now for the prompt: how about an enjoltaire b99 au? Either drawing or writing OR BETTER: E/R AS FITZSIMMONS (one of the reunion hugs would be nice but you can do - and i’m sure i’m gonna regret this but i love art - one of the angsty scenes) Anyways lots of glittery kisses and keep being awesome ily 💕

Yas, thank you so much for the prompt(s)!? For everyone else who sent prompts, I’ll be posting them through the course of the week!

Also, I decided to do both of the prompts you suggested, but I’ll post them separately. So, here it is: E/R as Fitzsimmons! Hope y’all like it.

When Grantaire opened his eyes, the first thingthat invaded his senses was the piercing white pain on his left arm. He faintlywondered if it was broken, and tried to remember what had happened to him. Hismind was completely blank for a few seconds before everything came rushing backinto his memory.

His heart raced franticly inside hischest as he jolted into a sitting position and looked around the room forEnjolras. He realized two things: the first was that Enjolras was just a fewfeet away from him, and the second was that they weren’t in a room, but in amedical pod.

Memories of the betrayal they hadsuffered rushed into his memory, bringing tears to his eyes along with thecontinuous throbbing of his arm. Grantaire realized that the bone had beenbroken in the same place from when he was a kid, and he sighed as he tried tohalf-crawl, half-drag himself towards Enjolras’ unconscious form, a hint ofanxiety making his heart beat faster. Taking two trembling fingers to Enjolras’neck, Grantaire could find a steady pulse, and sighed in relief. The impact fromthe fall must have made Enjolras lose consciousness, just as Grantaire had, ormaybe he had hit his head too hard. Grantaire tried to feel for any possiblebruises or cuts on Enjolras’ head, but found none, so he carefully took off hisown jacket, hissing in pain when it dragged along his injured arm, and folded itneatly to make some sort of makeshift pillow for Enjolras. He lifted the man’shead and placed the jacket beneath it. It wouldn’t provide too much comfort,since they were trapped in a pod in the middle of the Atlantic ocean, but itwas still better than lying on the cold, hard ground.

God. The fact that he wassubconsciously making Taylor Swift references was a sign that things were bad.Things were really, really bad.

As he tried his best to make amakeshift sling for his broken arm, Grantaire tried to figure out how on earththe pod had sunken to the bottom of the ocean. It wasn’t supposed to sink that low. S.H.I.E.L.D. pods were built to becompatible with aircraft, submarines and spacecraft. The fall was supposed tohave killed them, but they were most definitely alive, so the plane must havebeen flying low and in a vertical mode. He looked around, trying to findanything that could help him and Enjolras to escape that deathtrap and survive,trying to put Claquesous’ betrayal on the farthest corner of his mind. Hecouldn’t afford to worry about that on that moment. What he needed to focus onwas a way to get Enjolras out of there. He looked sickly pale under the dimbluish illumination of the pod, and yet it only made him look more like marble.Grantaire couldn’t allow Enjolras, brilliant, genius, good Enjolras to die like this, suffocating inside an air-deprivedmedical pod at the bottom of the ocean, betrayed by a friend, forgotten bytheir group, completely anonymous to the world. Enjolras was destined togreatness; that much Grantaire could tell. He needed to find them a way out, ifnot for himself, then for Enjolras.

After finally tying his sling andlooking around for anything that could help them escape, Grantaire decided thattheir best shot was rigging the EKG’s wireless signals to send a distress callto S.H.I.E.L.D.’s frequency, even though it was very probable that no one wouldbe listening. Sitting idly and conforming to their incoming doom was notsomething Grantaire was willing to do, not when Enjolras’ life was also on thestake. He rigged the signal after struggling with the equipment for a while,since his dominant arm was clutched uselessly against his chest, and then hejust sat there, right beside Enjolras, waiting for the other man to awaken. Ittook Enjolras almost an entire hour that, to Grantaire, passed as if it was aneternity of silence.

Enjolras blinked his eyes openslowly, sluggishly, looking around the pod in clear confusion before his losteyes finally found Grantaire beside him and his face expressed pure relief. Hetried to sit up, looking a bit disoriented, and Grantaire didn’t bother to helphim. Enjolras hated having people helping him unless he requested it, and itwasn’t as if Grantaire would be of much use with a broken arm.

“What’s going on?”, he asked, voiceslightly croaked. He continued to look around the pod, as if trying to figureout by himself what had happened.

“I’ve spent the last hour trying tofigure out why we sank”, Grantaire explained, not quite meeting Enjolras’ eyes.“We’re at the bottom of the ocean, by the way. Just in case you missed it”, headded just for the sake of being his usual annoying self to Enjolras.

Enjolras continued to stare at himblankly, as if waiting for further information. Grantaire sighed at the lack ofresponse.

“I think that the atmosphericadaptation must have tried to compensate on the impact”, he continued, noddingat the window. “We sank slowly, as the density of the outer walls increased.According to my math, we’re at least 90 feet down. You won’t be able to see thesurface”, he added, when Enjolras tried to look outside the window.

“How did we even survive the fall?”,Enjolras turned back to him, frowning.

“I vaguely recall tying us to thebackboard before we hit. I broke my arm, by the way”, he tried to wave atEnjolras with his injured arm just to make a point, and hissed in pain at themovement. Enjolras frowned at him, looking concerned. “My only useful arm. Itwill be missed”.

“I’m sure you’ll be back to paintingin no time”, Enjolras said, trying to sound reassuring, but Grantaire could seeright through him. Enjolras was scared. And Enjolras was rarely scared.Grantaire didn’t know how to respond to that new display of emotion.

“Yeah, sure”, he agreed, justbecause there was nothing more that he could say.

A long silence stretched betweenthem, before Enjolras decided to speak up again.

“I thought we were dead for sure.When Claquesous –“

“Don’t”, Grantaire said throughgritted teeth. “Don’t talk of him”.

Enjolras at least had the decency toremain silent, even though he looked taken aback by Grantaire’s suddenoutburst. Grantaire had been the only one to defend – or at least try to –Claquesous’ innocence when they saw Jehan’s inscription on their base’s wall:Le Cabuc is HYDRA. It didn’t take too long for them to find out that Le Cabuc’sreal name was actually Claquesous, and that he had been working for Thénardierand for HYDRA all along. And still, Grantaire tried to believe that was nottrue. It couldn’t be true, they werefriends, they were partners, they had saved each other’s lives and he had givenGrantaire advices and he… And he…

And he threw Grantaire and Enjolrasto their deaths without a second thought.

“We have to find a way out”,Enjolras said after a while, carefully studying Grantaire’s face for anypossible unwanted reaction. But Grantaire had spent the long hour he waited forEnjolras to wake up thinking about every single possibility of escaping thepod. Everything that could be done had already gone through Grantaire’s mind atthat point, and he knew it was hopeless. Upon Grantaire’s blank stare at thewall in front of them, Enjolras frowned. “There is a way out, right?”

“Even if there is”, Grantaire sighedin resignation. “We’d be all alone in the middle of the ocean with the bendsand no flotation and no one looking for us. I already rigged the signal to theEKG to send out a distress call, but it only works S.H.I.E.L.D. frequency.Which means there’s nobody listening”.

“Grantaire –“

“And those aren’t even the onlyproblems”, Grantaire scoffed, smiling bitterly at their lack of luck. “Therearen’t many supplies left in here, and with each breath we take, we lower theoxygen rates inside the pod”.

“What are you trying to say?”, Enjolrashalf-snapped, half-whispered. He was staring at Grantaire with wide green eyesthat looked bluish under the gloom of the ocean water. He would have lookedbeautiful, if Grantaire didn’t know he was about to die.

“There is no way out”, he stareddeep into Enjolras’ eyes, trying to commit their beauty to his memory, eventhough they looked so sadly terrified. “We’re going to die down here”.

 “Are you scared?”, Enjolras askedwith curiosity, gazing out of the pod’s window as if they were on an underwatercruise.

“I guess I am”, Grantaire admittedwith a half-shrug. What was the point in lying, anyway? There was no dignityleft when it came to being stuck with your years-long crush at the bottom ofthe ocean after a person you trusted plunged you to your deaths. He might aswell be honest with Enjolras for once in his life.

“I am, too”, Enjolras admitted aswell, voice low, after a few seconds of ponderation. He sighed. “What do youthink it’s like?”

“Death?”, Grantaire raised aninterested eyebrow. Were they going philosophical now? “It all depends on themethod, really. Drowning is supposed to be quite pleasant in the end,apparently. Once the water fills up your lungs –“

“I mean after”, Enjolras interruptedhim, rolling his eyes and finally giving up on staring outside the window. Heturned to look at Grantaire instead, focusing all his attention on him and onthe answer he was about to give. Grantaire would have blushed, if it wasn’t forthe fact that he was about to die. That sort of put things in perspective.

“Oh, right. Sorry”, he shruggedagain, giving Enjolras an apologetic smile. “I’m not much of a believer myself,as you have probably noticed by now”.

Enjolras sighed, slightlydisappointed, but then immediately chuckled, as if acknowledging the truthbehind Grantaire’s words.

“You’re really not”, he smiled,bittersweet. “I don’t think I’ll ever figure out why”.

“There’s not much left in this worldto believe in”, Grantaire said, staring intensely at Enjolras. He deep downhoped that somehow, his words would find their way inside Enjolras’ marbleheart and make him realize that, if anything, Grantaire believed in Enjolrasand in Enjolras only.

“Not even in the afterlife?”,Enjolras tilted his head curiously.

“Do you believe in an afterlife?”, Grantaire asked. Enjolras’ eyesgazed downward and he shrugged.

“I think I do, in a way. I like tothink about the first law of thermodynamics, that no energy in the universe iscreated –“

“And none is destroyed”, Grantairecompleted with a twitch of his lips. Enjolras stared up at him, mimicking hissmile.

“That means that every bit of energy inside us, everyparticle”, he took a deep breath, “will go on to be a part of something else,maybe live as a dragonfish, a microbe, maybe burn in a supernova 10 billionyears from now. And every part of us now was once a part of some other thing…a moon, a storm cloud, a mammoth. Thousands and thousands of other beautiful things that were just asterrified to die as we are. We gave them new life… And a good one, I hope”.

“That’s beautiful”,Grantaire admitted, sentiment flooding his chest in a way that made him feelwarm and buzzing with affection and profound love. “Poetic, even”.

“I like to think of thepeople that history doesn’t talk about”, Enjolras sighed. “People who weren’tnoticeable, but that still made some change. People who died unheard of,forgotten by history, but had beliefs and desires just as we do. It gives mecomfort to know that someone will try to remember us the way I try to rememberthem”.

“Our friends will rememberus”, Grantaire reassured, even though he meant that their friends wouldremember Enjolras. “There’s no wayS.H.I.E.L.D. will forget about you after everything you created for them.You’re a modern genius”.

“And so are you”,Enjolras smiled, but Grantaire felt conflicted about his gentleness, the wordsbeing stolen from his lips once again.

“Right”, he merelynodded.

“It’s fitting that we’redown here together, R”, Enjolras said, a look of ponderation on his face thatmade Grantaire want to cry from sheer admiration for Enjolras’ beauty. “Afterall, this is where life began outside our planet. Just outside this… glass”.

Enjolras’ smile falteredand his brow creased into a frown. He turned his head to stare at the glassagain, one hand touching it carefully, as if analyzing it. Grantaire could seethe wheels turning inside of Enjolras’ mind and, before he could speak, hededuced what Enjolras was about to suggest. And no, no, that was not a good plan.

“Enjolras –“, he said ina warning tone, trying to stop Enjolras from getting too hopeful, because heknew what he was thinking and it wasn’t going to work. But there was nostopping him and he turned around with such excitement in his face thatGrantaire found all the discouraging words he was about to say dying out at thetip of his tongue.

“The glass, R!”, Enjolrasexclaimed excitedly as if he had just made the most important scientificdiscovery of the year.

“Yes, I know, Enjolras,but it’s bulletproof and pressure-resistant”, Grantaire argued.

“But the seal is4-methyl-2-pentanone”, Enjolras counter-argued, pointing at the glass of thewindow emphatically. Grantaire sighed, throwing his head back.

“I know what you’rethinking, but the flash point is too high for it to burn”, Grantaire explained,hating himself for being the one to kill Enjolras’ hope. But he had to berealistic, since Enjolras refused to do so. “It won’t work”.

“But medical ethanol hasa low flash point, and it burns hotter”, Enjolras continued, staring up atGrantaire with expectation. Grantaire frowned, acknowledging that maybe therewas truth behind Enjolras’ words. “If we could use the defibrillator as anignition source and build a compressed explosive to ignite the seal, theoutside pressure would –“

“Blow the window in”,Grantaire completed, pure bewilderment written on his face.

“Yes!”, Enjolrasexclaimed, clapping his hands together.

“But this just gives us awhole new set of problems to deal with”, Grantaire frowned, staring at theglass and trying to recalculate all the variables they would have to face inorder to make Enjolras’ plan work.

“Yes, I know that”, Enjolras rolled his eyes. “But can you just bepositive for once? We’re not going to die down here!”, he exclaimed.

“Yeah”, Grantaire smiledat him with sincerity. “We’re not going to die”.

 “Ok, so we have to dothis soon because there has to be enough oxygen to –“

“Ignite, yes”, Grantairefinished Enjolras’ sentence, crouched down beside him as best as he couldwithout injuring his arm further. Enjolras had just finished setting everythingup for the window’s explosion, and was only resuming checking the EKG equipmentto make sure that everything would work according to their plans. Grantaire hada melancholic look on his face that went unnoticed by Enjolras, in his frenzyto get themselves out of the pod.

“Ok”, Enjolras sighed,finally standing up and aiding Grantaire back into a standing position.“Everything’s settled up”.

Grantaire took a deepbreath, trying his best to maintain a neutral expression.

“So, when I hit the powerbutton –”, he explained to Enjolras, but before he could finish, he wasinterrupted.

“The window will blow inand the water will rush inwards”, Enjolras completed. Grantaire sighed,nodding.

“Yeah, which willprobably feel like Bahorel punching us in the stomach a hundred times”,Grantaire noted with a warning tone. “It’s going to knock the air right out ofus. But there’s this”, he said, showing Enjolras the air-supply he had beenclutching in his spare hand while the man had been setting the EKG up. “This isnearly empty, but I rigged it to let out a burst of very high pressure. Itshould be able to force a breath into your lungs, but you have to hold on toit, ok? Hold on to it as if it were The Social Contract, or whatever yourfavorite book is”.

“It’s Order of thePhoenix”, Enjolras frowned.

“Ok, whatever”, Grantairerolled his eyes. “It should be able to get you up the 90 feet”.

“Ok, but there’s only onebreath?”, Enjolras squinted his eyes, confused and suspicious. Grantaire wasn’tmeeting his gaze. “And there’s two of us”.

“Yeah, I know how tocount”, Grantaire smirked, but it soon faltered and died on his face, givingplace to a grim, melancholic expression. Now was the time.

Grantaire had had manyopportunities to come clear with his feelings for Enjolras in the past, but hehad never mustered the courage. God, he was about to give his life for Enjolrasand he still couldn’t say the three words. He was a pathetic mess up of a man,and he didn’t deserve someone as brilliant and amazing as Enjolras in his life.All he wanted was to let Enjolras know of the way he felt for him, but thewords refused to find their way to his mouth and instead he stared down at hisown feet pitifully, broken arm cuddled against his chest and air supplyclutched tightly in his right hand. He couldn’t say the words, but it wasunfair to die without at least letting Enjolras know in some way. He couldn’tsay the words. But he could show them.

“You’re taking the airsupply”, Grantaire finally said, looking up at Enjolras’ confused face and notcaring about the tears that were pooling in his own eyes and blurring hissight. “You’re a better swimmer than me, anyway”.

“No”, Enjolrasimmediately protested, and Grantaire dropped his head, already aware thatconvincing Enjolras wouldn’t be easy.

“Enjolras”, he said in aserious tone, probably the first time he was ever serious towards Enjolras inhis whole life. But Enjolras was having none of it, and shook his heademphatically, pushing Grantaire’s hand away.

“No, you expect me towhat? Just leave you down here? I can’t do that. I won’t”, Enjolras saidfirmly, even though his face was growing blotted by the effort of keeping fromcrying. Grantaire hated that. Enjolras rarely ever cried, being in control ofhis emotions  way better than Grantaireever was, and he had only witnessed Enjolras cry once, after that stupidincident with the Chitauri helmet in which Enjolras got infected. That had beenwithout a doubt the worst day of Grantaire’s life so far, and seeing Enjolrasvulnerable and desperate like that was something that Grantaire had neverwanted to witness again. But there Enjolras was, fighting back tears because ofsomething he had said. Because of something he was doing.

But he would rather haveEnjolras cry because of him than die for him. Any day.

“Enjolras…”, he triedagain, softer this time.

“This is ridiculous,Grantaire, and not the time for jokes”, Enjolras reprimanded, even though thelook on his face told that he knew Grantaire wasn’t joking. Grantaire smiledsadly at Enjolras stubbornness. “We need a new plan”.

“This is not a joke andyou’re taking the air-supply, end of story”, Grantaire said simply, lookingdeep into Enjolras’ eyes, trying to make him understand, trying to make himrealize that this was awful and sad and he didn’t want to die, but he wouldgladly give his life if that meant Enjolras could live. Because living withoutEnjolras would be pointless, would be torture. Because they had been togetherever since they first met at the Academy, young, friendless and achingly shy,and Enjolras’ presence beside him, despite of their constant arguments andfights and disagreements, had become like air to Grantaire. “I couldn’t live ifyou didn’t”, Grantaire added, heart aching, because Enjolras needed to know. Heneeded to know, and Grantaire had wasted all the previous opportunities he hadhad to tell him. This was the last chance he would ever get.

“Well, I feel the sameway!”, Enjolras protested, actually stomping his foot down on the pod’s floorin anger and frustration. His eyes were locked on Grantaire’s sorrowful faceand he wasn’t bothering to hold back his tears anymore, allowing them to runfreely down his pale, freckled face. He looked furious and confused and angryall at the same time, and Grantaire had never wanted to kiss him more. Hesmiled sadly at Enjolras, who was breathing heavily and trying to come up witharguments to make Grantaire change his mind. “There has to be another way. Iwon’t leave you down here, R”, he shook his head.

“You’re taking it”,Grantaire said simply again, and Enjolras ran both hands across his blondcurls, as if he was trying his best not to punch Grantaire in the face out ofpure frustration. “Stop being so stubborn and just listen to me for once inyour life, Enj”, he added, and that made Enjolras snap his head angrily at him.

“Why would you make me dothis?”, he asked, angry and confused. “Why would you do this to me, R? Make mechoose between my life and yours? I can’t simply take the air, you would die!”

“And you would live”,Grantaire explained.

“My life isn’t worth morethan yours! You don’t get to decide that!”, Enjolras protested.

“Yes, I do; I’m saying itright now. I want you to live. So you will take the air, you will swim out ofhere and you will survive. You still need to change the world, remember?”,Grantaire raised an eyebrow. The pain on his broken arm was nothing compared tothe pain in his broken heart.

“I don’t want to changethe world if that means I’ll lose you”, Enjolras said, and Grantaire knew thatwas a lie; it had to be. There was nothing Enjolras wanted more than to changethe world. Grantaire’s existence did not interfere in that. It couldn’t interfere. And yet, Enjolrascontinued: “You’re my best friend in the world”.

“And you’re more thanthat to me”, Grantaire whispered impulsively, head dropping. He could see theshift in Enjolras’ expression, the way his face dropped from anger to confusionand to horrifying realization. And he couldn’t bear to witness it. He loweredhis eyes, air supply clutched tightly in his trembling hand. His chest wastight and there was a knot in his throat, and the burdening weight of tears waspressuring his airway but he still forced himself to speak. Because this washis last chance, because he was about to die and he wanted Enjolras to rememberhim, since he would be forgotten by the rest of the world. He wanted Enjolrasto know. He deserved to know that hewas loved. He took a deep intake of breath and looked up at Enjolras’shell-shocked face. “I couldn’t find the courage to tell you”, he said, voiceshaking and awful but he didn’t care, he didn’t care. It didn’t matter. “Soplease…”, he pushed the air supply carefully in one of Enjolras’ hands, findingno resistance. “Let me show you”.

His words seemed to causea rupture of some sorts, because Enjolras finally broke from shock into sobs,emitting such pitiful sounds that Grantaire wanted nothing more than to embracehim and comfort him. But they didn’t have the time. They needed oxygen toignite the explosion and they had spent too much time chatting. This wasn’t theway Grantaire wanted to spend his last minutes – rushing Enjolras out ofsobbing right after confessing his feelings – but there was no other option. Heneeded Enjolras to live. He loved him. He loved him. He loved him.

“It’s ok, Enj”, he triedto reassure him, but Enjolras shook his head, face twisted as he cried andsobbed and choked on his tears. Grantaire hated it. Enjolras tried to embracehim without disrupting his broken arm, but Grantaire couldn’t care less aboutthe damn arm and enveloped Enjolras the best he could with his healthy one,pulling him close. Enjolras’ face was buried against Grantaire’s neck, armsthrown over his shoulders, and Grantaire could feel the dampness of Enjolras’tears seeping through his skin and the rattling of Enjolras’ shoulders witheach of his sobs. He had always wanted to hug Enjolras like that, to hold himso close that they would be able to feel each other’s heartbeats, but he hadnever imagine that this would be the way his dream would come true. He hadnever imagined that holding Enjolras against himself would feel so bittersweet.“It’s ok”, he repeated, smiling sadly, but Enjolras shook his head again.

“No”, Enjolras said, pullingback from the hug and dropping kiss after kiss on Grantaire’s face. He kissedhis cheek, which was also damp from tears, his jaw, his forehead, his othercheek, the top of his head, his chin, the tip of his nose, each kiss followedby a muffled and unbearably sad “no”. But his lips never found Grantaire’s, andthe cynic took that as sign enough.

“We have to hurry”,Grantaire said, as Enjolras continued to drop tiny wet kisses on his face, asif trying to make it up for him. Grantaire’s heart was shattered. “Enj. Enj,listen to me. We have to hurry”, he tried to say amidst the kisses. “We have todo this now”.

“No”, Enjolras continuedto say, fingers clinging to Grantaire’s shirt and body glued unbearably closeto his. “No, no, no, no”.

“Just take it, Enj”, hesaid as Enjolras tried to push the air supply back towards Grantaire. “Hold ittight. Don’t let go”.

“No, R, no”, Enjolras wasbasically wailing. Grantaire stepped away from him, eyes glued to his face asif trying to memorize every single detail about him. The way his green eyesglistened underneath the blue light, the way his freckles disappeared beneaththe redness of his face, the way his rosy full lips that had been droppingkisses all over Grantaire just a second ago were parted and moist and so, sobeautiful; the way his blond, curly hair fell perfectly over his shoulders, theway his chest rose and dropped with each breath that was disrupted by a sob.Grantaire committed all of that to memory, smiling at his best friend, hisEnjolras, who would live and be amazing and astonish the world with his geniusmind. Dying didn’t seemed so bad, knowing that at least Enjolras would get tolive.

Closing his eyes, he bentover and pressed his right hand to the power button that would trigger theexplosion.

The last thing he heardwas Enjolras’ desperate howl of “NO!” before the glass burst and the water hithim with the strength of one hundred punches.

Then, there was onlysilence.

[clever-flower-girl-blog]

The Woman in the Wardrobe.

She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the wall across from her, painted with flowers and dancing girls with long blonde hair like her own. Her hands grasped at the blankets on either side of her, knuckles turning white. It wasn’t often that she was unable to suppress a bad memory, she was quite good at it actually but even though she was looking at her paintings all she could see was the mirror of the wardrobe door. 

She was back there, back in her third year, waiting eagerly for a chance to face the boggart and cast it back with a spell. She hoped she’d succeed in such a way that people would maybe take interest. She would do something cool for once instead of messing up. She was excited, she clutched her wand to her chest, “we can do this,” she whispered to her wand. 

Ravenclaw shared the class with Slytherin that year, she was always very impressed with slytherins even if. amongst the houses, she felt they were most likely to be a threat to others. One by one she watched her classmates perform admirably and then get congratulated by the teacher and their friends. That was going to be her to, that’s what she thought at least. She rocked back and forth on her heels. 

Finally it was her turn and she could barely suppress the smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. She gripped and readjusted her grip on her wand, getting a good feel for it as she stepped forward, time slowing just a little as she did. The class grew quiet, never really knowing what to make of her attempts at spell work. “We can do this,” she muttered to herself again. She stood in front of the wardrobe, heart pounding but in that moment excited for whatever was to come. 

The classroom was silent now. The door of the wardrobe remained shut. Rapunzel frowned, was the boggart tired? She took a step forward and the door began to creak open, ever so slightly, bit by bit. She watched herself in the mirror, her face painted with a look of anticipation. She was getting a little tired of waiting and she could tell the rest of her class was too but she also felt perplexed. She glanced at her teacher who also seemed perplexed. She looked back at the wardrobe, the door had opened far enough that she couldn’t see her reflection, just the darkness inside. 

No, not darkness, there was a person in there but she could barely make them out. She swallowed and took a step forward, her knuckles white, grasping the wand as they were the bed sheets in the present. Something was wrong, very wrong. She felt cold, sick to her stomach and although she knew she should step back, curiosity compelled her forward. Despite all the time she spent thinking, she couldn’t name her greatest fear. 

She got closer and closer to the wardrobe, details of the person inside were growing more visible but still impossible to make out as a whole. She was walking but she felt out of breath, the person was wearing a hood. She took another step forward, feeling as if there was an icy cold hand on the back of her neck, a shiver ran up her spine and her eyes opened wider and wider. She could make out the subtle curve of a woman’s body beneath the robe. 

One more step...and she saw her. Obscurred almost completely in shaddow she saw her face but her face was wrong. The eyes were too sunken into her head, shadows too dark beneath them, the face hidden beneath the hood smiled and reached out for her with slender, pale fingers. She stood frozen in place. “No....” she whispered to herself, “no, it’s impossible, no,” she pleaded with herself, shaking her head. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no,” she said, again and again with strangled gasps, shaking her head. The hand crept closer and closer, as if to grab her and drag her into the darkness of the wardrobe. 

She felt the icy fingers on her neck and snapped. She didn’t scream, she turned and she ran, pushing the the crowd, hearing their hushed whispers, muffled as if they were under water. She heard the teacher say something, foot steps come after her, she felt like she was moving too slow, that someone was close behind but the world around her flew by. 

She pushed the doors of the classroom and ran out down the hall, panting and crying. She couldn’t have seen her it wasn’t possible. She was the only one who truly loved her, the only one who had always been there. She kept Rapunzel safe, she was beautiful and kind and not at all like the creature in the wardrobe. She turned a corner and slipped, tripping and falling, tumbling down a set of stairs that spiralled downwards. The world span, she thought it would never stop spinning, she was so disoriented she didn’t notice the pain of it all. Finally she stopped tumbling, lying sprawled at the bottom of the stairs. She curled herself up into the fetal position, covering her eyes, she let out a blood curdling scream that echoed down the halls. 

Someone found her later, lying on the ground crying, confused, scared. They brought her to the infirmary and asked her questions, everyone seemed to have a question about what happened, including her. She didn’t want to answer their questions though because she was afraid of the questions that would lead to. She lied to them, she told them she saw a lady she had seen once on a wanted poster, someone who killed a lot of people. It was a good lie and it satisfied them mostly. 

She thought about that day a lot, never when her mother was home, when she was gone for long periods of time and her memories of her shifted and changed and became more and more distant. Her mother had been gone for nearly a fortnight now and the loneliness was becoming crippling. She felt a tear on her cheek and released her grip on the bed sheets, fingers aching she brushed the tear away. 

She felt familiar feet crawl up onto her lap, she glanced down and smiled through her tears, “Pascal,” she said, “it’s been nearly an hour, where have you been?” 

Pascal was silent and then whirred at her. 

She nodded, “you’re right,” she said, wiping her tears away with her palms, laughing, “it’s late, I should make supper, a soup should be nice, huh?” 

Pascal whirred. 

“Yes, one with lot’s of vegetables for you too,” she said, gently scooping him up and placing him on her shoulder before leaving her room for the kitchen, hoping the act of cooking would banish the thoughts that filled up her mind.