#the kind of dissociation that feels like that disorienting second just after waking up after an impromptu nap anywhere but your bed

[halinski]

.

[writerwhowritesao3]

Billy starts experiencing C-PTSD symptoms when he and Steve start living together. 

(Long, angsty ficlet under the cut. TW for self harm, panic attacks, past abuse, and PTSD)

He has more frequent nightmares, and now instead of just having nightmares about the Upside Down, he’s having nightmares about Neil and also about his mother.

Things that should be mundane and innocuous start to be triggering, like the scent of Budweiser.

Some things that used to be totally fine are now triggering. For example, Steve used to be able to push Billy against a wall when they were both in a playful-rough-sex kind of mood. The one time Steve did that when they were living in their own apartment, Billy completely shut down. It only lasted for a few seconds—not even a full minute—and Billy tried to play it off like it was nothing and that he was totally fine. But seeing Billy completely blank and non-responsive like that scared the shit out of Steve so he never did it again.

Billy also experiences some mood issues. Some days he’ll be fine. But other days he’s so consumed with sadness and anxiety and exhaustion that even getting out of bed is a feat.

There’s a period where Billy wants to have sex all the time. Like, he’s constantly all over Steve, practically begging for him to fuck him. During this time, he pretty much only wants the sex to be hard and rough. Eggs Steve on to fuck him harder, choke him, slap him, pin him down, use him. 

The hyper-sexuality lasts about two weeks or so. And then for a month after, Billy can barely stand to be touched at all.

Sometimes Billy gets up in the middle of the night and can’t go back to sleep, so he takes long walks in their neighborhood so he doesn’t wake Steve up.

Steve knows that this is all caused by trauma. He does his best to be supportive. He comforts Billy and helps him go back to sleep when he has nightmares. He makes sure that Billy eats and drinks water when he’s depressed and he coaxes him into taking a shower because he knows that it’ll help Billy feel better.

He figures out that while pushing Billy against a wall freaks him out, backing him up and pressing him against a wall gets him hot. 

When he’s getting undressed for bed or changing his clothes, he turns away from Billy when he’s taking his belt off.

Steve also watches Billy closely to make sure he doesn’t do anything totally self-destructive. 

Billy hates it. He hates that Steve made changes to his own behavior to avoid triggering him. He hates the fact that little things set him off and make him dissociate. He hates himself for being such a burden that Steve is obviously just staying with out of some sense of obligation. 

He cuts himself and hides the wounds and scars under his clothes. He starves himself and doesn’t eat unless Steve is there.

Things eventually come to a head. 

Billy is home alone and he has a panic attack triggered by a Ford F-150 parked across the street of their apartment building.

Steve comes home from work to find Billy sitting on the kitchen floor, knees pulled up to his chest, and arms wrapped tightly around his legs. He’s visibly shaking. He’s not crying—he looks like he’s a million miles away.

Steve very carefully brings Billy back to reality. As soon as Billy is out of his dissociative state, he completely falls apart. Sobs uncontrollably in Steve’s arms. Says that he feels like he’s going insane and that he thinks he needs to go to a fucking mental hospital.

Steve helps him calm down. After he stops crying, Billy is still kind of disoriented. And he’s physically exhausted. Steve draws a bath and puts in a few drops of lavender essential oil. He gets in with Billy, sitting behind him so that he can lean back against his chest. They hold each other all night in bed.

The next day, they go to their city’s LGBT Community Center. One of the staff members there helps them connect with a trauma therapist. Billy is able to get an appointment for later that week. 

Steve sees a therapist, too. 

Billy’s therapist diagnoses him with C-PTSD refers him to a psychiatrist. He starts taking medication and continues with therapy to unpack and work through his childhood. A few months in, he also starts going to a support group held at at the LGBT Community Center. It turns out a lot of gay men have abusive parents.

He and Steve have a few sessions with a couples counselor. 

They grow. They heal. And they do it together.

[writingpuddle]

The foxes and Andrew reacting to Neil with a British accent?

Hey anon im p sure you sent me this like a million years agobut I found it again when going thru my asks yesterday so here goes myattempt at a bulletpoint fic:

Neil grew up in the states, sohis default accent is American, but he is ridiculouslygood at imitating. Like give him a ten second audio clip and he canextrapolate basically an entire dialect from it

The Foxes discover this aroundHalloween when watching a spooky movie and Neil goes into a perfect deadpanmockery of the Dracula character’s terrible Transylvanian accent

It becomes a thing

The Foxes will give him an accentand just set him loose

Neil is kind of surprised bytheir enthusiasm but also secretly very pleased to have found a way to amusehis Foxes

He likes making them happy so henever denies them

Except Kevin, but that is mostlybecause the team gets more amusement from watching Kevin get frustrated and trynot to show how annoyed he is over Neil being such a petty little asshole

Also they discover that if Neilputs on an Irish accent when Kevin isn’t paying attention he will absolutelyJUMP

Give him an order in an Irishaccent and he just instantly starts to follow through before he wakes up,blinking in disorientation as he realizes what he was doing

It’s funny at first, then theyrealize it’s because he associates the accent with his mother, and then itskind of sad, and then Kevin starts telling more stories about his mum and someof the few good memories he has of her, and then it gets funny again because Foxesare Foxes and they do love a good roast

Kevin complains outwardly but itsactually kind of cathartic to talk about his mother

He tells Andrew this inconfidence and Andrew just glares at him like no shit dude, you need fuckingtherapy

Anyways

That summer is going to be thesummer of the girls graduation

So they’re all determined to dosomething big to celebrate

And they get it in their heads todo a Eurotrip

Neil isn’t really payingattention at first because he’s more concerned about whether Andrew will bewilling to do a transatlantic flight

(Andrew is obviously going tocome. Flights suck, but there is no way he can cope with his whole family beingthat far away. He does not feel the need to explain this. It should beobvious.)

That’s when the Foxes pause, alldevious.

They’ve been plotting

“So, Neil,” Allison says. “At what point are you going to introduce usto your British uncle?”

Neil does not see where this isgoing

In fact he is largely baffled bythe suggestion.

“You realize my uncle is agangster, right? Like, literally a crime boss. Possibly the most dangerousperson in Britain.”

“Mm-hmmmmm.”

Neil is ???

“But he saved you Neil,” Nicky says emphatically. “We need to thank him.”

“Uh, kind of by accident, butyeah, technically.”

“You should call him. Just toask. You know, at least give the guy some warning that you’ll be in the area.”

Neil is still kinda confused butokay, fine.

Now here’s the thing

The Foxes have heard any numberof accents from Neil by this point

Including a magnificent Godfatherimitation

And probably half a dozendifferent British ones

But those were always for the laughs

He always picked a terribleaccent or would mock the living hell out of a posh one

Neil isn’t used to being thefunny one so he’s trying his best okay

And it’s fun and all but Neil can’tbe seductive to save his life

Even if you made him speak theFrench, the language of love itself,he’d just sound like he’s talking about the next game because he has zeroflirtability

Face it his and Andrew’sflirting sounds kind of like death threats to outsiders

They deserve each other

SO the Foxes convince Neil tocall up his uncle and they huddle around the phone

Only to be utterly disappointed

Neil talks with Stuart for all ofa minute and a half, just normal voice

He hangs up and tells them thatStuart will meet them in London in May and that they’re going to get him inshit with the FBI for this

The Foxes retreat, mutteringmutinously

Andrew is well aware of what’sgoing on, but it’s halfway amusing so he doesn’t say anything

As the months pass the Foxesbecome increasingly desperate in their attempts to make Neil say something sexy

They make him quote movies, TVshows, read out flirty text messages

One memorable time they even gethim to read out a page from Fifty Shades of Grey in a stuck-up British accent

They almost die laughing

It’s like a fucking superpower

Neil can say absolutely anythingand make it come across totally non-sexual

The Foxes have pretty much givenup by the time the summer trip comes around

Neil spends the plane ridepretending not to fuss over Andrew so by the time he arrives he’s totallyexhausted

And here is what he didn’texpect:

He is totally used to listeningto the local accents and then blending in naturally

It’s very disorienting beingamong the Foxes and their various Americanism, but hearing British accents allaround him

And his instincts are snarled upin knots

Plus he’s fucking tired

So he keeps slipping

First it happens when they passthrough customs, just a little lilt to his voice to put the officer at ease

But then it keeps happening

Stuart sends a couple cars topick them up and take them to this massive place he owns right in centralLondon

Being a crimeboss comes withcertain perks okay

Neil slips up again when he’stalking to the driver, his accent washing back and forth

Everyone else isn’t really payingattention because as excited as they are about Neil’s accent they’re in London and they’re all exhausted and fora lot of them it’s the first time they’ve been outside of the States, ever

Andrew notices

But he doesn’t say anything

They get to the apartment andfind a note there from Stuart saying he’ll pick them up tomorrow for a tour

Everyone splits off into theirrooms to sleep

Neil falls into bed exhausted, but sleep doesn’t come

And Andrew knows this but is tooexhausted himself from the stress of flying to deal with it right away

So he just wraps an arm aroundNeil’s stomach and holds him there as he drifts off

And it’s not enough for Neil toreally relax but it’s enough to make him feel grounded

The next morning Stuart shows upand everyone blinks at him bleary eyed and suspicious

But he’s charming and most ofthem find it kinda disarming

Which is how the Foxes end up takingwhat is probably the most expensive tour they’ve ever had (Allison excepted),lead entirely by a crime boss

Neil is lagging behind a bit buteveryone is so caught up in it that they don’t really notice

Except Andrew

That boy is always attuned to Neil

So he drops back with him andthey have a brief intense staring contest which ends in Neil looking away

They’re standing in Trafalgarsquare watching some street performers so no one is listening

Neil is obviously chewing onsomething and Andrew waits him out

He would wait forever

Finally, Neil just says, “I’vebeen here before.”

Which isn’t much but Andrew’smemory has never failed him before

I couldn’t live there again. I couldn’t retrace my steps to any ofthose places

Andrew knows what its like to feelsick at things that other people would love

So he nods and stands next toNeil the whole day

Not quite touching but closeenough that they can feel each others gravity

At the end of the day Stuart andNeil have a very cordial goodbye and then Stuart leaves them back at theapartment

Everyone is gushing about how charismatiche is and Neil doesn’t bother to correct them

His uncle has always been a bitof a snake-charmer but at least he knows he’ll never hurt his Foxes

They’ve still got a few days inLondon and Stuart’s secured them tickets to an underground dungeon tour thingthat usually has months worth of waiting list

Neil’s a little leery of goinginto a dark underground space, but with his Foxes there he’s sure he’ll beFine™

The team breaks out drinks aftersupper but Neil doesn’t have the energy

(Honestly according to thistimeline they’ve been in London for twenty-four hours they should be jet-laggedto hell and back, but w/e)

So he retires to their room andAndrew follows him like he always will

He sits next to Neil on the bedand waits

God there’s so much fuckingpointed silence between these two dear lord guys learn to communicate

Eventually Neil sighs. “I thoughtit would be okay. With all of them here.”

Andrew mulls that over

He doesn’t know how to admit thatit bothers him too. Seeing Neil reverting back to old habits, trying to blendin like its second nature

But he knows Neil is here to stayso he just slips a hand around the back of Neil’s neck and tugs him in untiltheir foreheads touch, breathing in the same air

Gradually the tension eases outof Neil

“We can go home,” Andrew says

“No,” Neil says. “I want to stay.I want to learn how to…do all of this, as Neil.”

Andrew squeezes the back of hisneck one more time. “Okay.”

It’s a silent promise, one he’sbeen keeping for over a year now: that any time Neil drifts too far, Andrewwill keep him anchored.

Neil knows it and he can’t helpbut smile a little, watching Andrew’s hazel eyes disappear into the shadowbetween their faces.

“Yes or no?” he asks

Andrew draws back a little

“You’ve been dissociating allday.”

“I’m here now.”

Andrew scowls and let’s go ofhim, standing up to go dig out his pajamas from his luggage

Neil flops down on the bed andadmires the view while Andrew changes

(That’s a nice thing. Andrewbeing comfortable enough to change in front of him. Sure, he’s always partiallychanged out in the locker room, but in private it’s different. It’s more. And Andrew is willing to give thatto Neil.)

(It’s very nice.)

“Staring,” Andrew grunts

“Can you blame me?”

“Yes.”

Neil sits up again and tugs onthe front of Andrew’s shirt until he gives in and steps up close, betweenNeil’s legs

His hands go to Neil’s sideswithout conscious decision

“Nicky wants the genuine Europeexperience,” Neil murmurs, toying with Andrew’s hem. He still hasn’t been givenpermission to touch, so he doesn’t. “We’re going to be staying in hostels.Might be the last time we have a room to ourselves.”

Andrew bites down on a thousandimpulses, reflexes to shut Neil down, cuthim out

Instead he just kisses Neil, goodand slow, a reassurance that they’re there,they’re real, and that this isn’t going away

“Andrew—”

“Yes,” he says, and pushes Neilback onto the bed.

You know what happens next

They love each other deeply andprofoundly and all that but they also like each other’s butts ya know

So afterwards they get cleaned upand curl back up in bed to sleep

Andrew climbs over Neil andnearly knees him in the balls and Neil’s laughing a little and Andrew scowls inannoyance as Neil scoots closer

And with the most obnoxious chav accent that’s ever been heard says, “Any chance a bloke could get a bit of a snog before bed?”

It is quite possibly the worstthing Neil has ever said and Andrew does not hesitate in slapping a pillow overhis face to try and smother him

Neil is laughing his ass off andit devolves into some pretty stupid wrestling before Andrew gets Neil pinneddown, straddling his hips

“Bloody wanker,” Neil says, unable to contain his grin

“Shut the fuck up,” Andrew says,and kisses him so that he does.

[golden-redhead]

OUMOTA WEEKEND DAY #3 - nightmares  (& bed-sharing & comfort)

About nightmares and how they define us.

Read on AO3.

Momota wakes up from the nightmares with a hydraulic press, a maniacally laughing bear and the rocket that takes him to the stars and then straight back to hell.

His eyes snap open with an accompaniment of a startled half-sob and half-whimper that tears itself out of his throat. For a long moment he just stares at the bare ceiling above his head, disoriented and in a daze, images and sounds from his dreams still bright and loud in his head.

In a frantic panic, he extends his arm to the side, worry and need of comfort swelling in his throat until his fingers brush against something familiar, something undeniably human and he lets out a barely audible sigh of relief.

Ouma's here, he tries to reassure the heart hammering wildly in his chest. Everything’s fine.

Except, it really isn’t.

His breath is loud in his ears, labored, and he can tell that he’s on the verge of hyperventilating.

He furiously blinks away the last traces of sleep and looks at Ouma’s much smaller form curled up next to him and was actually sleeping quite peacefully. He knows that Ouma has his own share of nightmares and all of them undoubtedly much worse than his own.

Momota got lucky. With the personality he got, with the execution, hell, even with how quickly he adjusted after the game ended and was released from the hospital, he had been deemed completely healthy within a few short weeks. Ouma? Not so much. He was never lucky, despite what his name would have suggested. Not with the personality they gave him, not with how lonely they made him out to be. Too smart for his own good, too paranoid to trust. And his death… so utterly gruesome and cruel that it quickly made its way to the top of all The Most Painful Danganronpa Deaths lists that Momota’s seen when he dared to check the Internet shortly after being released from the hospital.  

It’s actually one of not many nights where he sees him sleeping peacefully curled up in a tight ball after swallowing three sleeping pills on top of his usual medication.

Momota closes his eyes, but it quickly proves to be a mistake.

The traces of the nightmare are still lingering beneath his eyelids, a sickly pale and scared face of a dying boy moments before the descent of a death trap, moments before all there is is a strangled final scream and a mosaic of blood splattered onto the floor.

Even as the memory of the scene starts to fade slowly, the sounds - the crack of bones, the splash of blood as it hits the floor and the last choked up gasp that gets drowned out by the whirring of the machinery - remain, as real as if he was standing right next to the press once more.

The room feels suffocating.

With one last shuddering breath Momota starts to untangle himself from the sheets,  careful not to wake Ouma up, knowing how little sleep he usually gets. Once he successfully manages to free his arms he throws away the blanket and with one last glance at Ouma’s sleeping face stands up on slightly wobbly legs. Blindly, he finds the wall and tries to navigate his way to the door in the near-complete darkness of the room. He snatches his coat from where he dropped it the night before and slips his arms into the long sleeves.

He opens the door to the balcony and steps out, feeling the cold gusts of early spring wind against the skin of his bare feet, goosebumps rising on his skin. It’s still pretty dark outside, the first touches of dawn painting the sky with rosy tint of blues and oranges, the fog still hanging low in the air and coiling around the nearby buildings.

With a shaking hand Momota reaches to the small pocket of his coat and fishes a box of cigarettes out of it, humming approvingly when it turns out to be almost full. He pulls out one of the cancer sticks and pushes the box back into his pocket. He brings the cigarette up close to his face and reaches for the lighter that he always kept in a flower-pot on the windowsill, so it is there whenever he needs it. Momota puts it in his mouth, the bitter taste already burning faintly in his throat and inhales lightly while holding the flame of the lighter to the tip. Soon enough dry fumes reach deep inside to wrap around his lungs and the pungent smell carries to his nose, familiar and comforting, wisps of silver-grey smoke curling and dancing before his eyes. He leans against the balcony barrier, watching for a moment as the curls of smoke drift into the chilly morning air.

He closes his eyes and tries to clear his head, throw out all those nagging thoughts away, so they won’t haunt him anymore.

The tendrils of smoke continue to float above his head, coiling and shifting until they fade into the thin air. There’s a sense of solace that you can only really see in the early hours of the morning before the city wakes up again with its noises and foul smells.

He’s on his third cigarette when he hears the shuffling from inside their little apartment.

“...Momota-chan?”

The voice sounds small, disoriented and still heavily laced with sleep.

“Shit,” he mutters quietly, blindly reaching for the ashtray lying on the windowsill.

By the time he slams the balcony door shut Ouma is already in the living room, crutches in hands, legs trembling and wobbling and bending as they struggle to support his weight.

Momota feels a painful strike of guilt piercing through his heart and hurries to his side.

“Here, let me help you.”

Ouma flinches when Momota’s skin brushes against his, just like he always does, but doesn’t protest. He passively lets Momota wrap his arms around him and support his weight, too used to it to protest even though he hates this forced dependence.

Slowly they half walk, half shuffle to the kitchen. Once there Momota carefully lowers Ouma onto one of the chairs, ignoring the smaller boy’s little huffs of annoyance and scrunched up in distaste face.

Momota moves to rummage through their cupboard, cursing Ouma’s extensive tea collection under his nose. For him it’s all the same.

“You smell like shit,” Ouma’s nose wrinkles in disgust at the acrid smell clinging to his skin like a heavy layer of perfume and Momota lets out a short breathy laugh and flicks him on the forehead.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says distractedly and turns to the faucet to pour water into their small red kettle, filling it to the brim.

When he turns back Ouma’s eyes are closed, little fists clenched and resting against his thighs. His useless useless legs. Momota quietly busies himself with the task of making him tea, just the way Ouma likes it.

A few minutes later he carefully puts a slender elegant cup before Ouma, one of the few things he has left of his grandmother.  The real one, not the warm tender lady he remembers from his memories.  

“You have another interview next week,” he starts slowly, carefully, his eyes never leaving Ouma’s frail figure.

“Uh-huh,” is his only response as he holds the cup in his hands delicately, blowing so it would cool off faster, the leaves of his favorite jasmine tea coloring the hot water with a rosy shades of gold. His expression is unreadable, only the slight tremor of his hands and barely-there furrowing of his eyebrows betraying his inner emotions.

It’s always kind of surreal - watching Ouma bounce back to his in-game persona, all wide smiles and carefully shaped lies and sharp words that know precisely where to strike for it to hurt. He slides the mask on his face as if it’s a second skin, teasing and taunting and then falling apart in the warmth of Momota’s arms once the act is all over. It’s even worse if he actually has to interact with any other participants, almost as if it’s pulling out some bitter and darker side of him. Sometimes it’s hard to separate the two - the Ouma he knew in the killing game and the one he sees every day, struggling to carry the broken pieces of his past self. There’s a sense of dissociation to it, the difference between what is true and what is false grew so thin and fading to the point that he can’t even tell them apart.

He’s not much better, really. Momota from the game is so vastly different from who he was before applying to Danganronpa. And yet neither version of “him” feels real, making him feel like he’s floating somewhere in between, disconnected from both and unable to find the energy to care to find an answer. He rejects the Momota from before the game but he can’t be the person Danganronpa molded him into being either. So he clings to Ouma as if he’s his lifeline and out of some sick sense of guilt - for being so stubborn, for killing him - burning inside him with an overwhelming intensity.

He remembers Harukawa’s accusatory tone when he told them that he’s staying with Ouma instead of joining them as soon as the hospital staff deemed them ready to leave, her blood-red eyes gleaming with something like betrayal. She demanded that he tells her that he’s just joking and once he admitted that he was serious and that it doesn’t change anything between them she scowled and left without a word. Saihara’s reaction wasn’t quite as violent as hers but there was confusion, so much confusion as his eyes widened and he stammered a surprised “are you sure, Momota-kun?”. And Momota smiled, offering the widest smile he could muster, the muscle memory making it easier to make him look like the Momota that he knew and assured him that he knew what he was doing. Saihara didn’t seem very happy with this response but he didn’t pry, simply nodding in understanding and waved him goodbye.

And so Momota stayed by Ouma’s side. Somehow they managed to find a fickle sense of comfort in each other and for now it is good enough.

Momota presses his lips into a thin line and turns to the kitchen counter, pulling out ingredients and items that he needs to make them breakfast, muscle memory guiding him through the motions once more.

“You don’t have to go, y’know,” he drawls while lining the eggs up on the counter with one hand and turning the stove on with the other.

He doesn’t have to look behind to know that Ouma shrugs.

“If I don’t go they’ll cut off our money,” he says emotionlessly. “And then we’ll have to go to work.”

He says ‘we’ but they both know that he’s nowhere in a state that would let him do that, making all the responsibility fall on Momota’s shoulders.

Danganronpa representatives are willing to offer the participants money as long as they continue to perform the duties included in the contract such as participation in interviews, attending events and doing whatever they could in order to maintain the hype of their season.  

Momota is popular, especially now that the excitement related to the fifty-third season is still fresh, but not nearly as much as Ouma. The little liar quickly won the hearts of fans from all around the world. This meant more responsibilities, more interviews, more photoshoots, more events… more everything.

With Ouma’s slow recovery they cannot afford to lose the money, even if there’s something dirty about taking it from Team Danganronpa’s hands.

Momota’s fingers twitch, hands instinctively curling into fists and rage coiling in his chest. It’s in moments like these that old Momota breaks through the surface with all his raw emotions and recklessness. But even then it feels muted, unable to reach that passion from before.

“Momota-chan cares too much,” mumbles Ouma, making Momota snap out of his thoughts. “Like the big dummy that he is.”

“I'm not,” grumbles Momota cracking the eggs into the frying pan.

“Nishishi,” laughs Ouma and it’s the single most fake thing Momota has ever heard. He almost voices this thought out loud, words already forming at the tip of his tongue but he bites his lip before they have a chance to escape.

“Remember that you have therapy later today. I’ll drive you.” He says instead.

He reaches for one of their sharpest knives and starts to cut the carrots, keeping an eye on the sizzling eggs the whole time.

Ouma hums tunelessly.

“I’m not going.”

The knife slips out of Momota’s hand and grazes the skin, a scream that is more surprise than pain escapes his lips. The droplets of scarlet blood instantly form where the knife pierced the skin, dripping on the carrots and the marble surface of the kitchen counter.

“FUCK!”

Ouma observes the whole ordeal with passive expression, fingers tapping against the smooth surface of the kitchen table.

Momota rises his hand to suck the wound, the bitter taste of blood immediately flooding his tongue. A deep scowl twists his features and he levels his gaze with Ouma’s. The eggs are burning behind him, long forgotten.  

“Like hell you’re not.”

Ouma doesn’t even blink.

Momota groans. He doesn’t feel like fighting Ouma, not over this.

“Why the hell not?”

“Momota-chan is a horrible hypocrite,” he mimics his mannerism from the game, smile creeping on his face. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “He makes me go to therapy but he stopped going to his.”

Momota frowns. “It’s different.”

Ouma’s face goes blank. Momota knows this look. This is a look he can’t win with.

“If Momota-chan doesn’t go to therapy then I’m not going to mine even if he drives me,” he says. There’s a sense of finality in his words, despite the childish pout that adorns his face and crocodile tears that start to gather in the corners of his eyes, his favorite guilt-tripping weapon. “I’ll just sit there for an hour and not say a word and then we lose the money we could spend on something better and then we’ll have nothing to eat and the-”

“Fine,” spats Momota through gritted teeth. “Fine! I’ll go.”

Ouma smiles brilliantly.

Resigned, Momota turns to save the rest of their breakfast with a heavy sigh.

He isn’t the person who he was in the game. He isn’t even the person who he was before the game. Neither is Ouma. He would like to say that they’re survivors but it doesn’t sound right, not yet.

He only hopes that they can get there one day. No matter how long it takes.