#kokichi's face in the third panel is so good | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

golden-redhead · 5 years

Text

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.

- - -

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.

#oumota #oumotaweek2019 #kokichi ouma #kaito momota #ndrv3 #oumotaweek #ouma kokichi #oumota week #Dangan Ronpa #cw suicide attempt mention #my writing

53 notes · View notes