#sorry i ran out of steam at some parts orz

[one-way-dream]

A Lack of Essence (One-Shot)

Rating: General

Words: 3100+

Media: Danganronpa, Danganronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc

Pairing: Aoi Asahina/Sakura Ogami, Minor Hajime Hinata/Nagito Komaeda (Mentioned)

Tags: Post-canon, Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Pining, Feelings Realization

Warnings: Descriptions of an anxiety attack.

Chapter: 1/1

Link to the original work

AO3 Summary/Excerpt:

Undoubtedly, it’s one of the best, no— maybe the best she’s ever had in her life. It’s a perfect technique, it’s a perfect balance, it’s… it’s…

…But it’s not the same.

--

Aoi tries to make donuts like the ones she made in the past, but she feels like there's something missing.

Author's Notes:

i love sakuraoi and i've never written them before so here's a little brain dump before i forget that i ever wrote it and it rots in my computer forever fdjshfksdfsdf asahina aoi my oomfie ❤ as always, this is not beta-read

thank you for reading and i hope you enjoy!

Aoi doesn’t like the taste of the doughnuts being made nowadays.

Sure, the ingredients were much fresher, – at least compared to whatever Junko had arranged for them during their days trapped in the school – but something about the taste was… inadequate.

Whatever it was, it frustrated Aoi to no end.

With every passing year it felt like something was slipping away. That ‘something’ twisted deep in her chest, gnawing away and taking parts and pieces of her until she gave in to tears. Until she felt hollowed out from breaking down time and time again, however far and in between it may happen.

Despite the kind words Makoto shed time and time again, she never really considered herself a strong person. Sometimes Aoi wondered what she would think of her moments of weakness, years after their escape, years after her sacrifice.

A heaviness weighed on her shoulders, bringing her back to the present, where she absentmindedly leaned over a shallow pot of oil gone lukewarm – which subsequently meant that the test batch of doughnuts she’d set to the side had definitely gone cold while she was lost in thought. She blinks, clicking her tongue in irritation as she stares down the pastries, wondering how she was careless enough to even forget setting a timer on her phone.

Well… better off a little cold than burned to a lump of coal.

Aoi takes the plate off the edge of her kitchenette counter and sets it on the breakfast bar. She pulls the curtains apart to let the evening light fill the shadows of her small but tidy studio apartment. A sleepy marmalade sun has yet to rest behind the silhouette of the rebuilt city. Somehow the light begins to fill the shadows in her mind too; not completely, but just enough to pinch her cheeks and huff out a determined breath.

“This is it,” she whispers to herself, furrowing her eyebrows in concentration. “This has to be the one.”

Nimble band-aid covered fingers dart across her phone screen before she even considers taking a bite, sending a text message to Makoto, hoping that he wouldn’t mind Aoi sending her seventh consecutive message of the day.

>[7:08 PM] Heyhey, Naegi! I’m about to try out the new recipe you got from Hanamura-san! Wish me luck. :)

A quick tap on the paperclip icon and then a few more before the image is delivered to him. She smiles down at her phone a little at the picturesque scene of her evening snack neatly plated on her favourite porcelain, the paper towel beneath it splotched with oil and stray bits of cinnamon sugar shimmering in the sunlight. Everything looked perfect.

The arrangement feels awfully nostalgic; memories overtake her of large but gentle hands working side by side with her, the other insisting that ‘food tasted better when presented with care’. It’s nostalgic to the point where familiar feelings begin to rouse in her heart at the memory – but she pushes it down. The grip on her phone gets tighter until her hand starts to tremble. 

Not yet.

Not now.

Aoi quickly sets the phone down and swallows thickly, though she finds her mouth drier than usual despite what was supposedly a perfect rendition of her favourite food lying before her. Even during the killing game, her appetite had never dwindled at the sight of doughnuts. She smiled brightly for herself as encouragement, as if practising in front of a mirror like the many times she’d done on her worst days before stepping out for work.

Why… did she feel this nervous? And why did she feel so afraid of disappointment?

Finally, she reaches out and picks up a doughnut by the edges, where the caramel-esque sugar just barely grazed her fingertips. Surprisingly it’s still a little warm, and truthfully, it's unbelievable that it’s this soft even after cooling down. 

The numb buzzing still clings to Aoi’s mind, and while it usually wouldn’t be an appetite killer, today nothing really feels right. But as soon as the sweet and spicy aroma reaches her nose, her mouth waters instinctively, eager to partake in old indulgences. With a bit of optimism, she leans forward and takes a small and hesitant bite, careful not to let her thoughts sour the experience.

Even though her mind wasn’t quite swayed by the thought of doughnuts, her tastebuds immediately gave into the familiarity. The first thing that she notices is that it’s just as soft and light as it feels, almost unbelievably so, as it melts in her mouth in an array of flavour ranging from a delicate mellow sweetness to a hint of mild spice. The taste coats her tongue without being overwhelming somehow – without a doubt, the recipe is a decadent masterpiece. Simply pure art.  

Aoi reigns herself in and manages to wolf down the last quarter of it without inhaling any topping sugar by accident. Eventually, as she chews, she comes down from the high and her mind wanders again. If she were her younger self, the one before the killing game, she could have died peacefully knowing that this was the best that she’d ever get.

Undoubtedly, it’s one of the best, no— maybe the best she’s ever had in her life. It’s a perfect technique, it’s a perfect balance, it’s… it’s…

…But it’s not the same.

Aoi’s own voice echoes the words she didn’t want to admit in the back of her head, so strongly that it makes her flinch.

It pulls her out of the delight by drowning it in the frustration she’d feared time and time again. It’s disappointment that finally settles in her mind despite everything; as sticky, heavy, and gross as the bitter kuromitsu her mother was so fond of. As she swallows down the last bit of the pastry clean from the side of her cheek, she finds that there is a flaw to it after all: there’s a stale aftertaste.

For something so seemingly perfect, even this had its flaws. It lacked something. Or maybe there was too much of something? 

But… just what was it? Aoi’s brows scrunched together as she mulled it over, wiping the grease and crumbs off her fingertips onto the clean parts of the paper towel. No distinct taste from a lack of ingredients? No, probably not, given that it called for cinnamon and the barest hint of clove and spices she’d never even heard of. Maybe there wasn’t enough sugar? Oh, but the cinnamon sugar dusting should’ve covered that base as well.

It just… wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough. It’d never be enough.

She just had to accept the facts – nothing she will ever make from here on out could ever be the same as the ones she and Sakura made together.

But the question was: could she live with that?

Aoi sighs deep and forlorn, leaning back against the barstool as her gaze veers out the window overlooking the growing shadow of the cityscape, eventually trailing back to the remaining three doughnuts.

Old feelings come back with a vengeance at the sight, thrashing in her chest like a small bird trapped in a cage. She clenches her knuckles white and then relents, at long last – she doesn’t want to fight the feeling anymore today. At least for today, even if she knows the cost is that it won’t end well.

She takes a deep breath and smiles, genuinely this time, wondering how Sakura would look like bathed in the light of sundown like she is now, sharing a meal together like they used to every day. She never saw her in the sunlight before - and even if she did during their school years, she wouldn't know anymore. She would never get to know.

And that’s all it takes for the seams of her composure to be suddenly torn to shreds; for that weird mixture between swelling affection that made her heart soar only to be shot down by unbearable, crushing grief. It held her at a deadlock, stasis, as sobs wracked her body. It was so unlike her, ‘sooo unlike’ the world-renowned star athlete and Ultimate Swimmer Aoi Asahina, as she’d chastise herself after a thorough cry.

Aoi had always considered herself lucky that her good days and neutral days far outweighed the bad compared to the others, but it was never like she was ever immune to despair in the first place, not even after all that her friends had done for her. Especially not after all that her friends had done for her. The guilt is a snaking hairline fracture in her favourite and otherwise perfect ceramic mug - the one that reminds her of home and of family and loved ones. 

The guilt is something she finds hard to douse; it’s a constant reminder against calloused palms and one might even say that, despite her go-getter personality, the fissure is reminiscent of her own being. It’s seemingly harmless, and it won’t shatter to pieces, but it’s there. 

Thinking hard on things was never her forte, and neither was sweating the small stuff. Even so, bitterness claws at her throat, constricts her breathing to nothing more than a desperate rhythm.

It was really unlike her.

The muted sound of a ticking wall clock is all that resounds in the living room, in between shaky breaths, in between the unsteady pulses of her heartbeat. Vaguely, she's aware of the pace of it, of how the ticking tries to punctuate all the other sounds, except–

Everything is off. Her heartrate speeds up and it's thrown off even more. it's all lost to a moment's hesitation, and suddenly she's wrenched back into the depths of a swimming pool. Her coach spits out demands; that she needs to pick up the pace. It's off rhythm. It's grating. That she's off rhythm. She's grating. It's all wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. 

Until she catches the single beat where all three align at once. They blend together into a single startling click, folding into one like flour and sugar and yeast. Her head feels heavy, but clear for a moment; just enough to stop thinking. 

A pillow stays close to her chest as she calms down, as she buries her face just enough to muffle the sound. Just enough so that she couldn’t hear her own voice – her own weakness that she so despised. How could she not when the person she cared for was the very definition of the strength she always strove for?

The thing is, Sakura Ogami was never just physically strong.

Sure enough, the others had seen both her physical strength and her strength of character back in those days but… Aoi had seen it all. Sakura is Eden; she’s all the nurturing resilience of sanctum and all the grace of it too, right down to dew-soaked grass blades and tree roots buried in rich soil. 

Aoi had seen it with her own eyes; what it means to be in paradise. It was when she lay side by side with her, peeking a single eye open every now and then to see if the other was awake – if she was okay. She’d be met with a small smile, but her gaze always wavered, as if it was the smallest tell that she, too, might’ve been a little afraid. But instead of a confession, what she’d get in return was a promise that the first person she would turn to if she was ever in trouble would be Aoi – no one else but her. It made her heart soar, so much that she was afraid she’d never be able to sleep again from the way her pulse hammered against her chest. 

But still, she’d force her eyes shut, hoping, praying for it to be one of the nights where her run-of-the-mill luck favoured her. But eventually she realized that she never had to wish so hard to begin with, because each passing night it got easier; Sakura would stroke a gentle, warm hand down the side of her head whenever she figured Aoi was asleep anyway. She’d hum a gentle melody to her anyway, and each time, she fell a little more. Each time, she woke up a little braver and stronger, just like Sakura – like she was lending Aoi her strength. 

She wonders if Sakura ever figured her out. 

She wonders if she ever had herself figured out back then. 

But she doubts it, she’s never been the perceptive type. If she was then she would’ve known to help Sakura sooner. If she’d known then she could’ve saved her from her fate. Aoi knew well enough that ‘what-ifs’ and dwelling on the past never helped matters, but sometimes it felt easier to let it catch up, let it trip you by the ankles – even if only for a reality check. It’s her only companion within the lonely confines of her house, no matter how well she decorated, no matter how homely she made it; nothing would fill the space quite the same. 

The sound of a notification jolts her out of her thoughts, quickly picking up her phone to catch Makoto’s name in the preview. She unlocks the phone, holding her breath as she looks over the three messages.

>[7:39 PM] It looks great, Asahina-san! :) I’ll let Hanamura-kun know the next time I see him. I know you're busy but, if you get the time, maybe we could make some together for everyone?

>[7:40 PM] Sorry, I can’t talk a lot because I’m still working, but Hinata-kun came by and wanted me to pass along that he’d like all of us over for dinner this Saturday.

>[7:40 PM] Is that alright with you?

Her breath escapes through her teeth as she starts to chew on the skin of her bottom lip, clicking the phone off once more. She’d turned off ‘read’ notifications a few months ago when the pressure to respond immediately got too much; stewing in her own thoughts might not have been healthy, but neither were donuts – she could afford to cut loose a little sometimes. 

Now the trouble was those last two messages. 

Aoi loved her friends, she really did. She was always the first to celebrate them, and always the first to push them forward in the right direction if Makoto didn’t beat her to it first. But unfortunately, she was still every bit as human as she was an airheaded cheerleader.

She still distinctly remembers how she would always smile, shove down the sharp and ugly jealousy she felt when Hajime’s gold engagement band glistened under fluorescent lights before the guilt smothered her in its place.

Aoi once nodded along enthusiastically when Hajime fondly spoke of how he loved the fact that Nagito’s ring matched the silver of his eyes – and she wondered faintly, with her chin resting on her hand, whether he knew that she could relate wholeheartedly.

Nothing in the world could compare to the thought of Sakura wearing a wedding ring as silver and bright as her eyes, except maybe seeing her in a kimono that would undoubtedly look elegant on her. The feeling rocked unsteadily inside her chest, making her fond and unbearably lonely all at once.

The plate of doughnuts lay in front of her on the coffee table by the vase of fresh flowers Komaru and Touko had dropped off in the morning. And with the sun dipping into the horizon, she knew that her food would only get colder, and the room would only grow darker.

Frowning, Aoi reached into the drawer of the table, pulling out a box of matches and striking one against the strip as it flared to life. Her cherry blossom scented candles would do; they would keep her company, keep her surroundings bright, keep her warm despite how little wax was left. Something about that last part made her feel sour.

She leaned forward, tearing off a piece of a doughnut and ignoring the stickiness and grease that clings to her skin in favour of living in the moment. Maybe a little indulgence would be just fine, even if it wasn’t the same. 

So maybe Aoi wasn’t the only one to see Sakura in her moments of vulnerability.

And it's a selfish feeling, the hope she felt when Aoi caught a flash of guilt in Sakura’s eyes when she spoke of her boyfriend on the outside, when she caught her staring at her more and more with each passing morning. She wanted it to mean something.

She wanted the gradual transition from ‘my dear Asahina’ to ‘my dearest’ to mean something.

The silence in the room was heavy, but strangely enough, not in an oppressive way. 

What was stopping her from remembering her words? What was stopping her from letting Sakura’s life, her sacrifice, mean more than a push forward towards hope? 

After all, from the casual touches while they made donuts for the first time to her final heartfelt words, wasn’t it all an act of love from start to finish? 

Aoi blinks the mistiness in her eyes away, swallows thickly and leans back on the old couch, tracing the threadbare edges of it with her left hand; a well-loved part of her home that cradles her aching heart after a tiresome day. The remote rests easily in her hand, TV flickering to life with a single button, as the face of her high school swimming idol grins brightly at the camera. It's like she can feel the droplets running down her face, remembering how free she felt doing what she loved. She finally picks up her phone with a small smile, bordering on bittersweet, wondering if there was ever a missing ingredient to begin with. 

> [8:34 PM] Tell him that we're on for that group dinner date. 

Her fingers pause, hovering over the next few keys. With a sharp exhale, she settles on her words. 

> [8:35 PM] And yeah, let's finally make those doughnuts together for everyone. It'll be fun! <3 

Aoi lets out another determined huff, trying not to let her wobbly yet courageous smile fade. She’d just have to find a way to make her own secret ingredient. 

-x-

That night, Aoi dreamed.

She dreamed of doughnuts and picnics under a cherry blossom tree in full bloom and a world made for two people.

She dreamed of her beloved wearing the summer dresses Aoi always thought she’d look like a goddess in, even though she was always more than enough in her ripped sailor outfit.

She dreamed of a fond smile and husky voice humming, their bodies close enough that she could feel the rumble of her voice in her chest; large, protective, and warm hands enveloping her own, and the steady rhythm of silver bands clicking against each other as they walked hand in hand.

For once, Aoi dreams and ignores the dull ache in her chest in place of something far stronger, far more wonderful.

Love, and love alone, until the end of her days.

[typewriterghcst]

Title: Wool Rating: G Summary: “I’ll find a way to get him down,” he’d said, and he’d meant it, too. But as he climbs the seemingly endless stairs to chase after his erratic old friend, Natori isn’t quite so sure he’s up to the task. Notes: Had this in mind for a prompt I reblogged on my RP blog and figured probably no one would think to send this specific idea in, so voila! Wrote it myself lmao. Filling in canon that wasn’t actually shown is the Ultimate Self Indulgence, isn’t it? Also kinda exploring the idea of a Cat Kingdom that’s much more of a farce, like Muta implies in the sub— one in which the cats are really honestly only playing a very elaborate game of house ...and are also probably part of the afterlife, because goldarnit I can’t get away from my fascination with afterlife settings I should mention this is yet another of those fics I ran out of steam on and have been staring at blankly for the past few months or so and. yeah. it’s never going to be totally finished, which is really pitiful bc it’s so short. So. As per my usual protocol, there’s a small blurb at the end explaining what would have happened there, but this one follows canon very closely laughs So maybe it’s not altogether necessary here, but eh

                                                     &&&

It’s not even halfway through his hasty decision, when he’s ascended perhaps a fourth of the way up the steps leading to the window he’d spied the king clambering into, that Natori’s faith wavers. Winded merely from running after the other cat, there’s little surprise that the climb is physically quite taxing for him, but there’s something else, too. 

(Something he’s perhaps been only too happy to ignore.)

He’s come alone— a foolish decision, perhaps, but he hopes not. The guards had been so completely absorbed by their attempts to… well, in all honesty, run away from the newly-unmasked, returning Renaldo Moon, that Natori hadn’t seen fit to round up any of them so they may accompany him. They are only garden-variety cats; like many roles in the Cat Kingdom, they had been chosen for their appearance, not their nerve.

(Ah, a part of him recoils there— he’s not only been content to avoid the aforementioned wordless concern, but also this particular truth, the beautiful, grand cashmere wool, so to speak, that the kingdom’s residents have collectively tugged over their eyes.)

The clamor below has gradually subsided. He’s passed by Renaldo Moon himself at some point, the large white cat scarcely sparing him a glance, much less a characteristic glare, as he races by, bounding up the stairs while Natori shrinks against the wall and watches him become smaller and smaller the higher he goes. Seems he’s made short work of the guards, and little wonder.

It’s there the heavy silence really seems to settle in, and Natori finds himself lingering, hesitating even more, staring still up at the spiraling journey he has yet to undertake. A nervous energy has taken up residence along with the silence, slowing his steps, halting his progress.

What shall he say, he thinks, when he makes it there? How shall he say it? It must be said, but he doesn’t have the disposition to be cruel.

[ so, bc the meme was basically ‘let me write a scene from canon from my muse’s POV’ this would literally have just ended with natori’s relief that the king is weirdly meek and ready to retire and. yeah. that’s about it

sorry orz ]