Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

This is not your apartment.

Not that anyone would know that from the way you expertly maneuver around cupboards and drawers to withdraw the required utensils, plates, and pans needed to make your dinner. It might as well be your apartment if the sheer amount of time you spent here was anything to go by. The pantry harbors your favorite snacks and instant meals, there’s an extra pair of guest slippers for you and you alone, and the subtle purple touch to the decorum didn’t manifest here itself.

Truly, you’ve made this place a second home—a visible fact that pleases you to no end. It's also one that embarrasses you to your core.

The actual tenant is out at the moment, having abandoned you to your own horrible devices while trying to acquire some rare DVD or plushie—or something. Having done this time and time again, you know that there’s no telling when he’ll dare to return. It could be hours. It could be days! At least that’s how long it feels sometimes. Tch.

You’ll be dining alone tonight. It’s nothing new, and yet it stings in the usual way it does when you know he’s chosen his obsession over you.

You’ve already rummaged through the place looking for something suitable or “meal-like” to eat. There isn’t a whole lot to choose from that isn’t snack food, your fault, you suppose. The fridge has a few breakfast staples scattered about—eggs, milk, udon noodles, maybe some cheese, some soda—but nothing too substantial. It’s still leagues better than the barren cupboards of your actual home. You should be grateful there’s much to choose from at all.

You’re having eggs, you decide after a moment of contemplation. Eggs fried in oil with a bit of salt and pepper. Maybe you’ll even plate it with a piece of toast if you’re feeling adventurous. It’s simple, bland even, but you don’t think you can stomach anything else tonight. You’ve snacked your fill on junk and various bags of terrible novelty flavored crisps out of sheer boredom, downed two whole glass bottles of soda, and have resigned yourself to doing something. The television provides no solace and the internet is as brain rotting as ever. You have no other friends to speak of that you want to talk to anyway, so tonight is entirely a bust.

You aren’t being held captive by any measure. Leaving is an option, but it isn’t one you’re keen on. Leaving meant going—where exactly? Home? Certainly not. Not unless you wanted to trade your free-yet-boring evening for one of scrutiny and interrogation—no thanks.

You could wander to a park, solicit and kick rocks, but what would be the point?

It’s really no contest. You stay put and wait.

You withdraw two large eggs from the fridge. They’re organic, the carton promises, as only the best is provided to you by your benefactor.

Ha. Yeah, right. While your input is indeed taken into consideration a lot of the time, you know that nothing here is really “yours”. Gifts of food and trinkets come with an unspoken level of sincerity that just oozes pity.

You’re a charity case, plain and simple. (But hey, no need to feel upset about it, this whole arrangement was thrust into motion by your own design, remember?)

In actuality, this apartment and everything in it—eggs and all—belong to none other than your bestest friend in the whole wide world: Shuichi Saihara.

Ah, Shuichi. Dear, sweet Shuichi.

You’re tickled just thinking about him.

Him. And his shy demeanor. And his blue hued hair. And his ability to always keep you guessing.

Shuichi. Stupid god awful Shuichi.

You hate him.

You fucking hate him, you think as you carelessly pour too much oil into a pan before cranking the stove temperature to high. You hate him so much it makes your blood boil.

You hate how that’s a lie.

The pan heats and the sizzling starts and as you stare into your heat-shifting reflection you think about how much you hate that you’re in love with that fucking loser.

God.

Dammit.

Okay. Calm down.

Shuichi Saihara is your best friend, and not just in a “best friend, best pals, be there for each other through thick-and-thin” kind of way. He’s your best friend in a “you have no one else, you’re going to die alone, but you wouldn’t have it any other way” kind of way. (Oh man. You really are hopeless, aren't you?)

Shuichi is many things—many, many, shifting, contradicting, idiotic things. It’s what makes him interesting. It’s also what makes him infuriating.

You take an egg and find the edge of the counter. With one hand, you delicately crack it in half and into the pan it goes. You do the same to the second. The yolk breaks. Oil spits at you. Deserved, you bitterly think.

Shuichi’s whereabouts aren't entirely unknown to you. He told you the address he was going to visit and had even asked if you’d wanted to come along with him to complete his purchase. The object of his desires was inconsequential; it’ll end up in his pile of hoarded Danganronpa garbage by day’s end. It could’ve been a rare copy of a video game, an enamel pin, a goddamn keychain, and it’d all be the same.

You’ve tagged along on these errands many-a time in the past. You know how they usually go.

To come with meant spending an hour long train ride of ceaseless yapping to get to some distant residential area where Shuichi would turn what should’ve been a ten minute exchange of buying and selling into an hours long conversation about Danganronpa trivia with some stranger he’d met online. You know the questions he’d ask, too excited by the prospect of conversing with another fan to stop himself. What’s your favorite character? Talent? Season and execution?!

You imagine the prattle, the tiresome back and forth of defense and debate between the two parties. You already know that it would’ve been agony to stand there, false smile unable to leave your lips as the minutes melt away to even more hours wasted on Danganronpa fuck all nonsense.

So you had chosen to stay here, in Shuichi’s apartment, alone but entertained by your own freewill.

And, of course you had to choose wrong.

Again.

If you had gone with, then at least you would’ve been there. If you had gone with, then at least you could’ve been the voice of reason, the only one brave enough to call it when it was time. Perhaps you could’ve taken control of the ebb and flow of conversation, steered the two parties back on track or even subtly changed the topic. Who knows, you could’ve found something to enjoy along the way. Made your own fun, if nothing else.

Better yet, maybe Shuichi would’ve even offered to take you out for some real food served fresh and warm at a local eatery where the two of you could’ve chowed down instead of being cooped up for the night.

Wouldn’t that have been great?

Yeah.

It would’ve been.

Your eggs fry along the edges. To be honest, it’s quite hard to fuck up eggs. Even the broken yolk of the second one does little to bother you as you routinely spoon oil on top to cook it to mediocrity.

Dimly, distantly, you hope that Shuichi might bring you back a treat anyway. An extra piece of memorabilia that the seller offered that made him think of you or a sack of takeout that he bought on a whim just cuz’. Because he knows spontaneity is your favorite sorta thing. Because you’re his best friend. Because he cares about you.

Maybe, just ‘cause he has the money and even this afternoon trip is basically just pocket change to him so what difference would it make to him to spend just a little more time or effort to show that he cares?

He’s not bringing you anything, though. Shuichi doesn’t really go out of his way like that, not unprompted anyway. And it’s not even out of selfishness or stingyness, but out of obliviousness, you suppose. He usually needs a nudge to go the extra mile, an implication or a subtle hint that you reaaallllyyyyy want him to get you something. Otherwise he forgets or gets distracted.

You’re sure that if you provided him with a laundry list of things you wanted, he’d find a way to get them for you no problem, but how tacky would that be? He should just know at this point! Why do you have to say anything for your supposed “best friend” to want to do something nice?!

You just want him to—

To….

Hmpf.

Shuichi is many things. He’s smart, he’s talented. In terms of looks, he’s kind of cute. He can clean up nice, anyway. He’s just shy from being a total NEET, and that’s due to your influence. He’s a prep student, someone who doesn’t ever shut up unless placed in front of an unfamiliar crowd, and he’s as dense as a fucking brick.

He has the capacity to be so brilliant—if only his priorities lied in something else. Something useful.

Instead he’s a Danganronpa diehard. Why did he have to be so obsessed with something so stupid?!

God, if you were just the slightest bit less infatuated, then all of this would be a dealbreaker. The most frustrating part is that you can see admirable traits in him. He’s kind. He’s endearing. With a bit of maturity he could even be—

Fuck.

You never pegged yourself as a hopeless romantic. Egg on your face, right?

You wonder where Shuichi is by now. Was he still talking off that poor stranger’s ear or had he made it back to his train? Was he on his way? Would he be here soon? You could always text him, casually probe for an answer, but that could be seen as being needy, wouldn’t it?

Pride wars with your heart.

How desperate are you to know?

Hm.

Your dinner is burning.

You’re an idiot. A moron. You’re going to be waiting around for the rest of your life for someone who will never see you as more than—

The front door jostles.

You flinch like you’ve been caught doing something unsavory.

You quickly discard the eggs in the trash, appetite lost in favor of bootlicking. Pan abandoned in sink, you slather yourself on the couch in the livingroom, nose in your phone, with a level of practiced casualty.

From outside, Shuichi fiddles with the lock, hands probably full with whatever it is he’s lugged back here. You pretend not to hear his struggle, ignoring the urge to run to the door and open it for him.

After another moment, you hear it swing open. Shuichi enters, shuffles out of his shoes and into some slippers before poking his head around the corner of the hallway. One honied eye peers out between darkened locks of hair and you watch him smile.

Just like that, whatever you were just thinking flies out the window. The negativity, the doubt, it’s all just gone in an instant.

Wow.

Who knew you were so easy? Pathetic, ain’t it?

It’s quite possible that you have a slight obsession of your own.

⤝🜲⤞

This is how it all starts:

It’s Wednesday and Chess Club is canceled for the second time this week. The Chess Club Leader, Oniji Wada, declares such before dashing out of the room for a sudden “family emergency”. The emergency in question involves his on-again off-again girlfriend, Sato Okubo. She’s a second year, same as Wada, and she seems bright if not for the fact she allows that bumbling idiot to associate with her.

When they’re split up, Wada insists on following her around, waiting on her hand-and-foot until she gives him the light of day, wherein he begs for a second (or third, or fourth) chance. When they’re together, he claims that she’s too clingy and acts as though he’s better than the partner he claims to have wanted.

Poor girl, you would think if you hadn’t had to witness this particular song and dance for the umpteenth time already. At this point, it’s on her for not breaking things off permanently, though you are hopeful that it sticks this time.

Of course, without the club’s great and supreme leader, Chess Club cannot continue for the day. You’d think that the club could actually keep going if the other members stuck around but—therein lies the problem.

Not even five minutes after Wada’s departure, the rest of the club members have already vanished, claiming other spontaneous priorities have come up and require their attention. There used to be a time when you’d try to convince them to stay, but you know better by now.

It’s not personal. They’re just Wada’s friends and not yours, that’s all.

You sigh.

With the club room basically abandoned, you suppose it’s time for you to pack up as well. You put away the school provided timers, boards, and chess pieces. They’re cheap things made of plastic, but a good chess set doesn’t need to be fancy. You think that you’d like a nice hardy wooden set one day. Something unique where each piece has a nice weight to it. It’s fun to imagine—for the future, something you definitely see yourself having.

Ha.

When the last chair is set into place, you flip off the lights and begin your slow journey home. You aren’t exactly in a rush but you don’t feel like meandering around here for too long. Other clubs are commencing business as usual, and you don’t want to be labeled as even more of a weirdo than you already are. So you leave the campus grounds, staring at your sneakers the whole while.

You have to take a train to get to your neighborhood so you one-eighty towards the opposite direction of your station. Your parents expect you back later, so later is when you’ll head home.

You hit up a fast food joint the last time this happened. It ended up being a nice experience for yourself, a real moment of reprieve from your normally turbulent life, but you don’t have fast food money lying around this time. Just as well. You suppose you could just wander a bit and chase the block until you get bored enough to turn back.

There are a few hobby shops up this way. They all sell the same handful of things: toys, t-shirts, and other useless junk, but it can be fun to look through the aisles and see what cheap garbage the media companies are peddling out to the public. With death games being all the rage these days, there are probably tons of blind boxes full of select character merch just lining the shelves for all the big name brands.

You never really understood the appeal of killing game media, nor how it became such a popular genre in the modern day. No one can deny the appeal of the classics, and even you can admit that a real whodunnit mystery is intriguing, but most of the shows being broadcast and live streamed right now—the ones that promote “real” terror, kills, and scares—are just plain stupid.

All the good twists have already been thought up and taken and the colorful casts of characters that fill each season and show of what-have-you are way too bloated with gimmicks that just get in the way of anything authentic and interesting. Everything that happens has become either way too predictable or so freaking looney that no one in their right minds could’ve guessed the killer!

You’ve watched your fair share of death game garbage and have come to the conclusion that anyone who likes the stuff must be out of their damn minds crazy, or just following the bandwagon fad. There’s no way anyone really hangs on the edge of their seats crying, sobbing, and pissing themselves about such asinine characters, right—?

“Hey! You!” someone snarls.

Oh.

That’s not good.

Looking around, you find yourself near a high school. One of the more…hm, laxer ones. You can tell by the amount of delinquent-wannabes hanging near the premises already up to no good.

You resist the urge to freeze and keep to your gait. Maybe they aren’t referring to you.

You aren’t particularly tall or imposing, sitting at a lowly hundred and fifty-or-so centimeters. It’s easy to blend into the background and go unnoticed, the only boon to your stringy build as—

“I fucking said stop, brat!”

—those that do take notice of you aren’t usually kind about it.

This time you do stop. You keep your gaze pinned to your shoes as gruff, heavy footsteps approach you from behind. You can smell them before you see them, cigarette breath and all. On a Wednesday? Are you serious?

You’ve been bullied before, an annoyance that you wouldn’t stand for if you could help it. Fighting back leads to more trouble than it’s worth, so you tend to act the part of “pathetic loser” to get it over with quicker. Bullies lose interest when their newfound toys break easier than expected. It’s the rougher, tougher victims that end up getting it worse.

It sucks but you’ve learned to swallow your pride when it matters. If people expect something of you, why not give it to them? Sometimes that’s easier than proving them wrong.

A meaty hand takes hold of your shoulder and jerks you to face them. There are four in total, all fairly large and entirely too old to be doing this shit for fun.

“The fuck do we have here?” one of them, nasally and eager, asks.

“Looks like a trespasser to me,” another responds, smirk in their tone.

You are maybe a good handful of meters beyond the edge of the gate. Territorial, this breed of brutes is. You mentally roll your eyes. It’s cliche as all get out, but try telling them that.

“Hey, you gotta pay to hang around this school,” the third one snarls into your ear.

“Yeah, that’s right! There’s a fee! So pay up!” The four let out a rough laugh.

The group makes a show of closing in on you. All this trouble for money that you don’t have. What a waste. You keep your expression blank, not letting your biting sarcasm or trepid fear break through the mask. You have an excellent poker face, but you can’t keep it for long. People tend to get angry when you don’t react to their prattle so you have to make a decision.

Best to be cautious. You could act weak and wimpy while blubbering apologies or you could try the more risky maneuver of just bolting and hounding for escape. You aren’t in the mood for an ass kicking at the moment, nor do you feel like running, but luck has infamously never been on your side. With the size of these guys, it’d only take one to catch up to you for things to get a whole lot worse.

You make up your mind and bite the inside of your cheek until tears prick your eyes. You swallow iron.

Time to play pitiful—your specialty.

⤝🜲⤞

They unceremoniously ditch you next to a dumpster, snickering as they clamor off. Somewhere in the back of your mind you’re thankful that they didn’t toss you into it. Seems like this was just a standard fare beating to them, you were nothing special. That’s something to appreciate. It’s the little things, ya know?

You flex your fingers then tense your arms. Your shoulder hurts and so does your stomach but your appendages seem to work just fine. Good to know that nothing's broken. You’re sure you would hurt a hell of a lot more if something was.

Your chin dully aches from where it met the pavement. Wet, red beads leak from the scrapes when you dab at the area. It looks worse than it is, you’re sure, but you still look like shit.

You try not to smear anything grody onto your uniform before remembering that you actually don’t care all that much.

Fuck it.

You pick up your school bag and sling it over your good shoulder and decide you’ve had enough. No more stalling. Staying out isn’t worth it if it’s going to be like this. Might as well get yelled at while crashing into bed instead of more sidewalk.

You wobble slightly as you make it to your feet. The world sways beneath you so you blink a few times to set it straight. One step at a time, you manage to move forward, trudging back the way you came. You hope that you’re a sore enough sight that no one else will pay you any heed.

You pass a few crowds. You hear whispering as you go. You’re concentrating on the ground so you can’t tell if heads turn your way. Not like it matters. No one offers you help or asks what’s wrong. You probably wouldn’t either, if the roles were reversed, but that’s no excuse. Everyone in this world only looks out for themselves. It’s not new information to you, not at all, but it still sucks that you have to learn this lesson time and time again.

Aches and pains rake through you with each stride in a dull and boring sort of way. You’ll be feeling all of this much more tomorrow.

You imagine what your parents will do when they see you. No “Oh Kokichi, what happened?”, “Kokichi, are you okay?” just more beratement.

“What did you do to your uniform?!”

“Ugh, clean yourself up this instant.”

“You’re an embarrassment.”

“It’s your fault for stumbling into trouble, after all!”

—because isn’t it always?

And that’s if they decide to even say anything at all.

You can see it now: the small, absent glance your mother gives you when you’ve disappointed her beyond measure, her expression pooling with resentment. Your father never actually meeting your eye, the terse shift of position as he wordlessly passes by you in that damn cramped apartment, the hatred all going unsaid.

It’s no use contemplating the inevitable. No amount of yearning or wishing or trying is going to change anything. The moment you graduate, you’re out of there, and that’s if they don’t kick you out first.

But really, you’re not eager to go home.

You could wait at the train station, killing time for a while. With all the coming and going, you’re sure no one would bother you all that much if you claim a bench and sit. Say you’ve missed your ride if questioned. Lie about waiting for a friend. Maybe just hop a couple lines, see where you wind up—

WHAM.

You blink a few stars out of your eyes as you find yourself facing the sky. Your mind lags behind as you try to register what happened.

“O-oh my god! Are you okay?”

You’ve fallen onto your bookbag, agitating your sores all over again. Fucking thing, full of books and other stupid blunt objects.

“Ah, I’m so sorry! Um, are you hurt?”

You shake it off your shoulder to help ease the pain.

“Here! I have some, ah, emergency gauze! A-and a few tissues! These can help with the bleeding. And the scrapes!”

Oh, for the love of—

“I-I’m really sorry. Please don’t cry.”

You squint at the stranger blocking your vision. They tower over where you’ve fallen, a dark splotch among cityscape.

You rub a palm against your eyes. Heh. So you are crying. Perhaps it’s a few residual tears from your little play acting from earlier. Or maybe you’ve just had a rotten day. Whatever the case, you can feel it now, your throat closing up, a burning in your head. Yeah, maybe you do just need to let it all out.

But you’re not doing it here. You refuse to fall apart on the goddamn side walk, saddled by some fucking—who is this guy anyway?

He’s still standing there, fretting, searching for some miracle inside of his satchel. For a moment, you think you should burst into tears; freak him out a little. But he finds what he’s looking for and offers you an unused pack of split monochrome pocket tissues.

You tentatively take them, wondering what the hell his game is. You wait for him to spit out the punchline, to demand money or recompense for soiling his fancy outfit, or something.

But it doesn’t come.

Fine. You’ll bite.

As you open the package and dab your wet face, you take a good look at him, and really look at him for the first time. You don’t recognize his uniform, but from the suit and tie getup you’d guess that he’s from a private school. He’s wearing a cap that smothers his bangs against his forehead and obscures his face in shadow, but from the angle you’re at, peering up at him, you can see a pair of concerned, chartreuse eyes fixated on you. His face is red, from embarrassment or remorse you’re unsure, and the more you seem to bore into him, the worse it gets until he suddenly turns away.

Softly, he says, “I should’ve been looking where I was going. I take full responsibility. Please let me make it up to you.”

You do look worse for wear right now. You wonder if he thinks he did this to you with that little shove or if he’s just the really skittish, guilty type. Either way, he seems like a sucker and who are you to deny him a clean conscience?

You muster up a sniffle and force a trembling frown. Hot frustrated tears are still welling, but you don’t bother trying to stop them anymore. You let out a shaky “O—okay,” and allow this kid to help you to your feet with his outstretched hand.

⤝🜲⤞

The guy’s name is Saihara. He doesn’t exactly tell you outright—there haven’t been any formal introductions between the two of you—but you can see his name embroidered on his satchel.

He’s brought you to a nearby coffee shop, leading you by the hand like a horse to water. It was mortifying, or it would’ve been if you’d had any fucks left to give. Let people stare and whisper—you’re getting a free treat so who cares.

You’d both stood awkwardly in front of the register as the barista waited for your order. Saihara had said he’d “buy you a drink” but it’s clear that he had no game plan beyond that as he never gave you any stipulations or monetary limits or a definition on what kind of “drink” would be acceptable.

The place is a chain joint so the listed offerings are nothing special. The seasonal menu caught your eye with drinks more chocolate than coffee with promises of chocolate chunks and mousse whipped cream—among other delights—but the pricing on those felt a bit too unreasonable to ask from a good samaritan attempting a kind gesture.

You didn’t want to push your luck.

You’d told Saihara that you were still thinking and he’d told you he’d wait before politely finding a booth for the both of you to set down your things. He insisted that you should wash up in the restroom, producing bandages and antiseptic ointment from his bag for you to use. You warily leave your school bag with him, opting to follow his advice.

You expect him to be gone by the time you’re done. He’s given you the equipment needed to mend your injuries, those caused by him and those not. His obligations are complete. No need to humor the latter half of his “apology”, right?

There's a chance he might rummage through your stuff, but you have nothing worth stealing. Even if this whole thing is an unusual round about gambit to ruin your day further, the mere gesture of pretending to care is still the nicest thing anyone’s done for you in a while. Sad, huh?

You dab your chin, having washed away grit, flecks of blood, and dry skin. A bit of ointment and a big patch bandage later and you look marginally better. Nothing else broke skin so you think you can return the rest of Saihara’s bandages. An ice pack would’ve been nice for the everything else of the matter, but beggars and choosers, etc.

You open the door and—fucker.

Saihara is gone.

You clench your scrapped fists and feel a burst of ire before it simmers into nothing.

Whatever.

This is all par for the course. What were you expecting? At least your bag is still there.

You return to your booth and—oh? Saihara’s bag is still here too. It takes you an extra second to puzzle upon this discrepancy before the capped boy walks into view carrying two drinks in each hand.

“I, ah, hope you don’t mind,” he says, lowering both drinks to the table. You stare at what he’s ordered you and stay silent a moment too long. Unsettled, Saihara hurries to explain, “W-well! The cafe was starting to fill up so I thought I’d order before it got too busy in case you were, uh, you had plans…? Um, here you go.”

An exorbitant chocolate parfait of a coffee drink is slid in front of you, horrific in its calories and rich chocolatey decadence. It’s enough, you are stunned. Ribbons of syrup ripple between mousse and shredded, dark chocolate chips. You’re sure it tastes as saturated as it looks, but the chocolate sprinkles on top really bring the whole mess together.

You can’t help yourself and grab the disposable straw appointed to you. You stick it through the affront to coffee and take a strained sip.

It’s so artificial. It’s so sugary.

It’s perfect.

You flicker your attention back to your generous host, but here at eye level the top of his head is obscured by hat and hair alike, leaving two pinpricks of yellow peaking out. He’s watching you—or he was. Caught staring, he ducks down, reaching up to tilt the bill of his cap to further conceal his flustered pink face.

Right. Manners.

“Thank you,” you say, nodding toward him. You take another sip as Saihara recomposes himself.

“It’s really nothing,” he replies. “I’d make it up to you more but I don’t want to waste your time. I shouldn’t have been in such a hurry.”

You’re curious as to where he was going but not curious enough to ask. Saihara is being really nice when he doesn’t have to be so the least you can do is offer polite conversation.

But, he’s still a bit of a creep, though, if you think about it. How did he know you even wanted this chocolate shake thing? (Okay, but you had been staring pretty intently at that menu.) So? You could’ve changed your mind! You might’ve wanted a different drink, but he still ordered without your input. Was he one of those guys, the ones who order for their partners just for their own bravado?

As though reading your mind, Saihara errs.

“Ah, if you don’t like it, you can get something else! It just seemed like you might’ve…. But! Maybe I assumed. You don’t have to finish it. It’s not a big deal, I don’t mind—I can buy you something different.”

“No!” you respond, instinctively pulling your drink closer to yourself. “It’s good, really. Thanks.” I’ve never had one of these before, you don’t say.

You wonder if he does this a lot: picks up sad, sorry, bullied kids and treats them to drinks and coffee.

Just from the look of him, you can tell he’s wealthy. From the private school attire to the luxury brand hat to the many, many official pieces of merchandise that line his satchel. Not to mention his entirely unopened and unused first aid supplies, all of which were very new (you can tell from the collaborative prints on the packaging). He seems like a well cared for sheltered sort, except he’s more socially awkward than entitled—thus far.

He was holding a phone when he first ran into you. It was the top of the line, latest version that’d just come out—yeah, this kid is rich.

You know you’re being unkind but playing nice isn’t really your strong suit. It’s always best to be skeptical. That’s how folks survive out here. You never know what freaks are lurking around the corner.

Still. Despite all that, Saihara seems nice.

No.

You’re just falling for his propaganda. Him and his rich lies.

You haven't fully relaxed around him and you doubt you ever will. You’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop and it’s unnerving that it hasn’t happened. Yet.

Saihara takes a meager sip of his drink. You blink back to reality where your disgusting chocolatey display has deflated a bit under its own weight.

Saihara ordered himself a hot drink as opposed to your cold. He’s taken the lid off of his cup to let it cool, and maybe that’s what he’s been waiting on while an uncomfortable silence has lulled between the two of you. It’s not as though you’ve really been talking though.

You can see that Saihara has gotten himself a regular coffee. You can’t smell any fun flavors on it. What is it, a medium roast? Dark? He’s gotten himself a small and something about the sight of him in his business suit-like uniform sipping that tiny, boring cup of joe makes something in you crack.

Saihara nearly chokes on his beverage in surprise as a snort escapes you.

He stares at you, wide eyed through his blueish locks as that same shade of pink paints his cheeks.

“A-ah, is something wrong…?” And that breaks the fucking dam.

You laugh.

You laugh and wheeze and cry.

Today has broken you. From the pain to the absurdity to this kid’s flustered face—it’s too much. It’s frickin’ hilarious! What a joke!

Something terrible and unexpected needs to strike down from the heavens to punctuate this bizarre day.

Instead, you wipe tears from your eyes yet again and manage to regain enough composure to point at Saihara, who has all but frozen in startled confusion.

You sneer. “You look like a total stiff!”

⤝🜲⤞

Wada is being insufferable today.

He’s insufferable everyday but he’s bitching about his new girlfriend and doing all he can do to avoid setting up. Of course, everyone else is flocking to his aid, offering condolences and advice as if he needs to be told how to treat a girl right. You don’t think anyone else in the club is seeing anyone. You don’t think anyone else in the club has been with anyone, so it’s all just a farce.

You’re happy for Okubo, though. Good on her for getting out.

Speaking of, you find that you’re really not in the mood to be playing chess with these morons. Not that they’re really rearing to go either.

You’ve assembled a few boards for playing and they’re all going ignored. Usually you’d just be annoyed. Today, though? You’re kind of fucking over it.

It’s been a week since you’d stumbled home, bruised and beaten. You went ignored by your parents, which turned out to be a boon after all. You’d finished the stupid sugary drink on the train ride home and made sure to dispose of the evidence before going in. You’d expected the apathy but it surprisingly hadn’t stung as much as it usually did.

As for Saihara, you’d decided to abscond before awkwardness could evolve into discomfort. You did thank Saihara for his time. And the drink. And the medical supplies, which you did return to him, but you did kind of bolt as he was telling you to “wait!” while stumbling over even more of his words.

You don’t know what he was trying to say or what more he was trying to apologise for, but it wasn’t really your problem.

Now, though, you seem to be having a bit of coward’s regret.

Saihara was nice. Statement.

Maybe, maybe there was a chance that he could’ve been a secret weirdo, but such a thing hadn’t happened yet. And he seemed a bit too earnest to be a standard spoiled rich kid. Maybe he was just the…out-of-touch, nepo baby kind?

To put things in uncharitable terms, you honestly could’ve milked the situation a bit more and it’s a shame you didn’t. You could’ve played up your injuries, subtly imply he was at fault more than it seemed—the whole shebang.

You could’ve at least given him your name. Or a fake name. Anything to imply you’d meet again just in case you needed to cash in on his goodwill once more.

Blah.

It’s not like you think friendship could really work out between the two of you, but a dope like that who is kind and easily nervous could make for a good—

You know.

You don’t know.

What are you thinking?!

He was just nice. That’s all. Some people are nice sometimes! Are you that starved for attention and kindness that you’d go running back to that dork?

It turns out: yes.

If you had any shred of dignity left then you wouldn’t be doing this, but you don’t so you are.

You decide to ditch Wada and his cronies. They can play chess or checkers or fucking hopscotch for all you care. You cite a stomach ache, though you could’ve said pretty much anything and no one would’ve given a shit. You get some eye rolls, a few pity “feel better soon”’s, and Wada’s blessing to leave for the afternoon.

You are not missed.

Thus begins your attempt to retrace your steps.

Saihara isn’t the only one who notices stupid little details no one else picks up on, you’re also quite good at being a smartass when needed.

For example: The trinkets and keychains that adorn Saihara’s satchel are a mix of characters both old and new from one of those killing game franchises. One of the more popular shows just announced a new season is coming out soon, meaning a release of more merch. It’s likely that Saihara was in a rush to buy some when he bumped into you last week. When you ran into each other, his head was also deep in his phone, preventing him from seeing you. That signifies that he felt familiar enough with the route he was taking to walk without looking where the hell he was going.

Assuming that he doesn’t have a club every other Wednesday, there’s a high chance that he’ll be headed back to one of those hobby shops as soon as his school lets out.

You could be wrong about any of these things, but Saihara seems like a creature of habit. If he’s not here this week, he might be next week, or the next, or the next. The only way to know is to check.

It’s not stalking, you reassure yourself. You haven’t known Saihara long enough to stalk him. Anyone with eyes and a brain could’ve figured all of this out—it’s simple observation and inference. You’re not a creep for noticing. It might as well be public knowledge!

So you b-line for the shopping complex that you’d passed last week, head on a swivel for capped rich kids along the way. You park yourself on a bench between two of the bigger shops after quickly poking your head inside each.

Saihara is nowhere to be seen.

You pick at the scab on your chin. The bandage had fallen off within a few days and you didn’t have anything to replace it with. It’s not noticeable in the sense that no one dares comment on it.

This whole thing could be fruitless. Your “masterful deductions” could be off or Saihara could’ve made his grand, expensive purchases any other day of the week, rendering a return here meaningless to him.

You think you look miserable, sitting here glumly to yourself. Seriously, what did you think was going to happen? Did you have a plan? An opening line? An excuse?

Nah, not really. You haven’t really thought any of this through. The only guiding throughline that you have is this: Saihara was nice to you. And you kinda want him to be nice to you again. You just want anyone to.

Welp.

You can’t catch lightning in a bottle twice.

The universe offered you something pleasant for once and you squandered it. This is the part where you get off your ass and go home. There’s no point waiting any longer. You shouldn’t keep making a fool of yourself.

And yet—

A huff escapes you. Then a sob. This shit again?

Why are you crying, idiot? Is that what you do now? Cry? In public? Like the weak little fuck that you are? This is pathetic—no. It’s worse than pathetic. It’s disgusting. Have you no pride? No shame? No embarrassment, left in you?

Everything they say about you is right. You’re a bottom feeder. A whiny little brat. A liar. A hypocrite.

You cry into the sleeves of your uniform. It’s a quiet sort-of cry and if anyone hears you they don’t acknowledge it. Your body wracks involuntarily and you gasp and gasp for air in between sobs. What a waste of tears.

Good things don’t happen to people like you. They’re reserved for the Wadas and Saiharas of the world, those who had a chance from the start. Not the Kokichi Oumas, who no one ever likes.

You’re not even sure why you’re unlovable. You’re smart. Isn’t that enough? Well, intelligence alone won’t do it. You have to be personable. You have to get along.

Fine.

Fine! You can do “personable”! You can “get along”! How hard is it to throw on a smile and play nice, anyway? You’ve lied through your teeth before. You can do it again. You can be the best—fucking—friend in the whole world if you wanted to! You’ve just needed a reason to try.

And try you will.

They’ll see.

⤝🜲⤞

Now this is stalking.

It’s not that hard to find out which prep school Saihara goes to, just a simple internet search for bland suit and tie uniforms. You try to tell yourself you’re doing this for mercenary reasons. The guy has money, he’s well off, you’re not doing any harm by playing golddigger. It’s like Robin Hood; stealing from the rich to give to the poor, except in this case the “poor” in question is your sorry ass.

It’s easier than acknowledging the truth.

You’ve put a little too much thought into this production, even going so far as running into those territorial bullies from that other dunce-ridden school. They knocked you around again, punching and kicking and spitting at you.

The worst part? You let them. All to sell the act. You might’ve lost your mind, now that you think about it, but this has to be believable.

An organic run-in just won’t do. How crazy would you seem if you just walk up to him out of the blue with a casual “Oh yeah, hey. Remember me, from last week? I’m that ungrateful brat that you bought coffee for. Wanna be friends?”

In comparison, this is way better.

If you’re right about Saihara, then he’d recognize you. If you’re right about him, then he’ll care. If he’s as kind as you think he is, then he’ll be the one to extend some semblance of friendship, and this time you won’t let him slip between your fingers.

You’re just doing this for his generous wallet. You’re using him! That’s it. That’s all. At least framing it that way feels less pitiful. It makes you the one in control.

The plan so far is shaping out to be the dumbest thing you’ve ever done in your life: Get your shit rocked, check. Run into Saihara, pending. Become his best friend forever!!!!! Ha! Never gonna happen, but you’re doing this anyway.

Goddammit.

You’ve hidden yourself around the corner of a brick and mortar building. With your small size and dark locks, you blend in well with the shadows of this alleyway. Okay. So you are a creep. But you’re not a freak. At least you have that going for you.

You squint, staring at the school gate, scanning over every student leaving the campus. A crowd of clubless students floods out in a rush and you hope (no, pray) that Saihara will be one of them. If he’s not, then your plan is to wait here until he does inevitably come out. Nice one, Kokichi! Really thinking ahead, huh?

If he has club duties or class rep responsibilities, then you’ll be stuck here for god knows how long, but you’ve committed this far, you’re not giving up now.

Everything fucking hurts. You haven’t completely healed from last week’s assault and today’s reprise has done nothing but make everything worse. Your bruises are ugly shades of green and purple but you are determined to wait in this heat until Saihara shows up to treat them.

Are you sure you aren’t a masochist? Because it’s really becoming apparent that you looovveeee—

Wait—

That’s him! That’s Saihara!

You can see him: a dark, capped silhouette lingering behind the escaping mob. His stance is rigid and he’s moving alone, not surrounded by friends or flocked by fellow students. Truth be told, you didn't have a contingency plan for if Saihara had other friends. Fuck, you were really banking on this encounter to be just between the two of you, didn’t ‘cha?

Well, lucky you. You have him aaaaaaaallll to yourself. Now what, genius?

Now, you start walking.

Your legs begin moving before you have a chance to regret it. All the while your mind cries profanities into your ear. This is a terrible idea. Not because you’re particularly afraid of Saihara and his rejection, but you just don’t think your spirit can take it.

Saihara is on his phone, reading or watching something of note. He turns to his right, away from you. There’s a station that way, perhaps he’s going home? Good, an excuse. Say you’re going to a station too, say you need one to go home—it's technically not a lie.

Your movements are involuntarily stiff as you cross the street. The pain you’re feeling is real, if nothing else. You aren’t even sure why you’re nervous. You aren’t lying. Not yet, at least. You’ve constructed this meet-cute but that’s all in terms of fiction. You aren’t in the wrong here.

You face Saihara’s back as he goes, oblivious to you and your nefarious plotting.

Now’s your chance! Either go for it or go home! Since he’s walking ahead of you, you’ll need to run to catch up. Your sore body is not thrilled about it, but screw what your body wants. To make this work, you need to nearly ram into him. You can aim for his side, go up past him, brush shoulders, and see if he turns around.

Good plan. Great plan.

You go for it.

You spin your book bag around so that it’s in your arms, unzipping the top of it and loosening the papers and notebooks that are inside. You summon a flurry of tears and will them to roll down your cheeks, rubbing your eyes in a bid to turn them red. Then, with a bit of effort, you force yourself down the sidewalk, sprinting up and into Saihara’s backside.

He flinches, you wobble, and your balance is thrown off. You’d hoped that he might catch you, but no such luck; you fall.

Your knees scrape against concert. Your bookbag goes tumbling down. Everything you own spills out onto the sidewalk. You swear under your breath, a natural and normal reflex to have in this situation, before letting a tremor overtake your voice.

“I—I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” you utter, fighting to keep your attention on collecting your things.

The back of your head burns with anxious anticipation. You hear him hesitate before shifting behind you, his own satchel dropping to the floor. And then suddenly he’s beside you, worry peeking out between his bangs.

“O-oh! Here, let me help you! Are you okay?”

Only now do you turn to face him. He visibly winces upon seeing your reddened eyes, tear streaked face, and terribly bruised complexion.

“I-it’s you!” He startles with horrified apprehension, and for a moment you think the jig is up. But then his expression softens into that warm layer of concern. “Who did—? Um, are you—are you okay?”

It’s a worthless question and you usually think poorly of anyone who asks it. Obviously you are not okay and anyone who thinks otherwise is absolutely kidding themselves, but when Saihara says it you know that’s not really what he’s asking.

“I—I’m fine,” you sniffle. “‘M okay.” Though, to contradict yourself, you let a textbook slip from your hands.

“No, you’re not,” Saihara says, and he says it with such matter-of-factness that you almost forget your role. He gathers a handful of your belongings and shuffles them neatly together. “Are you, um, are you getting bullied?”

You tilt your gaze downward, letting body language and Saihara’s imagination fill in the rest. He seems to hum in thought before resetting, shoving your things into your arms.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, that’s none of my business, but, ah….” He looks around, as though your assailants might still be lurking around the corner. You know they aren’t, you’d left them a few blocks back, but the way Saihara nervously surveys the area for your safety strikes something in you.

“Do you, uh, want help? I mean, carrying your bag. You look, um, like you could use some help.”

“N—no,” you stutter. “I’m fine. R-really.” You cast an anxious glance around and hold your book bag defensively. “You don’t have to.”

Saihara rises to his feet. He extends a hand to you just like he did last time, determination in his visible eye.

“I don’t mind. Really, I don’t! I can help you home, or to the station—there’s a train station nearby by the way. Wherever you’re going, I have time!”

With a shy glance up, a slump to your shoulders, and a swipe of your nose, you reply, “If you’re sure….”

“Then, here. Just tell me where you need to go.” And Saihara takes your bag from you and nods.

Hook, line, and sinker.

⤝🜲⤞

While you haven’t suckered another sweet treat out of the deal just yet, Saihara is true to his word and accompanies you to the nearest train station without so much as a complaint. You haven’t been able to study him all that much on account of having to keep up the dejected, fearful act, but you steal glances when you can.

Saihara doesn’t seem annoyed or irritated with the chore of chaperoning you, if anything he looks almost as anxious as you’re pretending to be. He’s doing this out of the kindness of his heart but he’s still nervous about it. You wonder what uneasy thoughts are perpetuating through his head, if it’s that fear of overstepping or if it’s something else. Whatever the case, he never voices any negativity.

In fact, he doesn’t voice anything at all.

You both walk in silence—a dreary, awkward silence that feels heavier than you think it should be. You’ve never been the real chatty sort, and with the role you’re playing, it would be out of character to initiate small talk now. That leaves Saihara as the only one to turn this whole thing around, something you’d figured he’d do to alleviate the tension, but he doesn’t for some reason.

Crap. Did you read him all wrong?

You try to think of a way to subtly indicate that you need cheering up right now, something to spur him into action. Last week could’ve been a fluke and you know you’re pushing it right now, but this can’t be all there is to him.

The two of you trot downstairs once you reach the station, and Saihara kindly offers to pay for your fee.

“Allow me,” he says, and his tone is soft and polite, but it’s not really what you were expecting.

You both sit down as you wait for your train and Saihara waits for you. The sounds of pedestrians coming and going fill the space and you find yourself disappointed when you turn to see Saihara has taken out his phone. He’s keeping it near his side instead of sticking it in his face, but the courtesy is lost on you.

This isn’t going the way you’d thought.

You’d thought you’d had him pegged, you thought that he was a more sensitive soul, one who would bend over backwards to care for sad, beaten boys, but it’s beginning to look like you gave him too much credit.

No. What are you saying? You wasted a week of your life daydreaming about a kid who did one marginally generous act for you and now you’re acting surprised that he's not living up to that dream.

Good god. You deserve this.

It’s not like you expected Saihara to be your knight in shining armor, but…just….

Ugh.

Saihara is looking everywhere but at you. This was a mistake. You can’t forge a relationship this way. It requires…something. Something more. Something that you don’t even understand yourself.

Your reason finally catches up to you. Your harebrained scheme hasn’t brought you the joy nor companionship that you seek. You don’t think you can salvage this.

So, you relent.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” you mutter. Might as well give him permission to leave. That’s what he’s waiting on, isn’t it?

But, Saihara sputters. “Oh! No. It’s really fine! I was just….” He sets his phone in his lap, ashamed. Serves him right.

“You don’t want to be here, you don’t have to be,” you reply, curtly. “I can get home on my own from here.”

“I want to wait with you,” he says. “Um, if that’s okay?”

You tense. Screw this. “Don’t bother.” You drop the act. “Piss off. Go play on your phone or whatever.”

“I’m sorry,” Saihara says. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m…not good at this.” He raises a hand to tug at his hat. “I do want to make sure you’re okay, though.”

“Why?” You hiss. “Because you feel bad for me? You think you’re better than me?” The spite is unearned—this is all your fault, you know—but you can’t help it. Fuck him!

“Not at all!” Saihara squeaks, embarrassment flooding over him. “Well, I mean, ah, um. You’re—you’re—”

You glower. “I’m?”

He chokes. You stare.

“I was so worried about you,” Saihara confesses at last. “I-I know we just met and I know we don’t know each other, but you wandered off last time and you were so hurt. And, you’re still so, uh, I don’t know….”

“Pathetic?” you offer.

“No,” Saihara says. “Don’t say that.” And there’s a level of authority in his tone. Like he means it. Like he cares. Then, he catches himself. His confidence wanes. “I just mean…it happened again, right? This?” He raises a hand. His fingers hover near your face, close but not quite touching your chin.

You can’t see how disheveled you look, only now does it occur to you how bad it might seem. Because it does hurt. Your face, your torso, your stomach and knees—you did this to get attention, and here you are, receiving it. Something twists in your gut.

You disgust yourself.

You wheeze. “What? Does bullying not happen at your school?”

“It does.” Saihara frowns. “But not like this. Um.” He withdrawals and some sick, sick part of you wishes he hadn’t. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…. This is hard. I wanted to help you. I just…wanted to help, is all.”

“Thanks, then, I guess,” you mumble. Because you do appreciate it. Because, in actuality, Saihara has done nothing wrong. You’re the one who was starved for more.

“You don’t have to tell me anything. You don’t have to share, and I can leave if you want, but,” and Saihara brushes a hand through his bangs, and you can see his honied eyes from this angle, and they’re creased with a tenderness you’ve never seen before. “I just get the feeling you don’t want me to go.”

And he’s right. He sees through you, but only halfway. If he’s noticed the other parts of your facade, he either doesn’t comment on it or he’s choosing not to notice. But maybe that part doesn’t matter. Maybe the “how” and “why” matters less than the “what” in this case.

You want to laugh.

“Oh,” you breathe. “Don’t worry about that. I feel bad keeping you.” And it’s true.

Saihara is unconvinced.

“It’s okay,” you insist. “I’m okay.” You’ve done enough.

This time, he relents. His shoulders slump. He looks like he wants to say more, but he holds his tongue.

“If you say so,” he decides. He flips over his phone to check the time and, for a split second, you can see it’s open to a page for portable ice packs. Ah, for the bruising. Heh, what a dork. You bury your head in the side of your school bag.

The silence returns. It’s awful and suffocating. Saihara doesn’t move from where he’s sitting. He remains next to you, people watching from behind darkened locks and the bill of his cap.

According to the board, you have less than ten minutes left until your train arrives, less than ten minutes before your time with Saihara is over and done for. Stubbornness rises up your throat.

“I am thankful,” you pipe up. “To you, I mean. Most people don’t pay me the time of day. So thanks, for noticing me.” Your honesty shocks you, but you think you’re done with lying for today. You’re no mastermind or ringleader. You couldn’t even manipulate a simple friendship together—

“Do you want to exchange contact information?” Saihara blurts out. Then he flinches, the both of you shocked. “Sorry, is that too sudden? I was just thinking—ah—no wait, this is…. I’m saying it all wrong.”

He takes a breath, then bows his head. “I’m Shuichi Saihara.”

Really? Introductions? This late in the game?

“Kokichi Ouma,” you respond. He raises his head to meet you.

“Ouma-kun,” he says. “I wish we could’ve met under better circumstances, but I’m glad I met you.”

Your eyes narrow. You tell him, “I don’t think you mean that.”

“I don’t think you mean a lot of what you say, either,” he muses, hand to his chin, and you feel heat lick your neck, because who the hell does he think he is? “I think that if you wanted to be alone, you would make yourself alone. I think that,” he pauses and his strange wave of confidence is back, “you could use a friend.”

Yep. This is definitely not how you were expecting this to go. Psychoanalyzed by some random fucking guy.

“And if that’s true?” You retort. “Why would I want to be friends with you, Saihara?”

He winces, hurt, dammit. Why do you do this? Why do you always push everyone away? This was your plan. You wanted this, didn’t you?

“It doesn’t have to be me,” Saihara mutters. “But, if you want it to be, I’d like to be friends.”

“Why? Why do you care?” You stress. Because you’re selfish. Because you want there to be a reason. You want there to be something about you that Saihara sees in you that is unique and not repulsive, something that makes you special in the eyes of this stranger.

“Because I want to!” he shouts, then falters back from his own volume. “I just want to! Do I need a reason to care? It’s not because of pity, if that’s what you’re thinking. I don’t know you, but I’d like to. And….” His hat tilts up. “I could use a friend, too.”

He shifts in his seat, but he doesn’t move away from you. Ball in your court, huh? Well. If that’s how he feels….

“Okay. I’m sorry.” You sigh. “I’ll tell you my number. Maybe we can…keep in touch?”

You don’t miss the way the faintest of smiles dances on the cusp of Saihara’s lips. He agrees, softly, before that push and pull overtakes him again.

You endure another round of “are you sure?” and “I didn’t mean to be pushy” before the exchange is complete. Saihara’s phone number is now secure in your shit ass flip phone. You feel equal parts pride and shame for the events that led up to this accomplishment.

You promise to let Saihara know that you’ve gotten home safe after your train arrives and you depart from the station.

All in all, that went—oddly well. You feel like you stumbled at so many intervals and yet you stuck the landing. You have Saihara’s contact information and he has yours. You will see Saihara again. It’s a fact.

Your face burns. You’re happy, you think. It makes the pain worth it.

For the first couple days there’s no further exchange between the two of you, just a few messages where you let Saihara know that you’re good, you’re fine, you’re safe, and all that. He reciprocates with “oh good!” and “im glad!” from time to time.

You wonder if this is how normal people converse with each other. You have the contacts for a few classmates but that dialogue is strictly academic. You suppose it would be too forward to invite Saihara anywhere. And impossible too, you don’t have the funds for anything like that.

You feel very sure that Saihara would offer to pay for any such activity that you want to do, but you can’t live by that assumption. What if he thinks you’re using him? You are using him, what are you on about? Well, he can’t know that, so you have to plan ahead and start by contributing for yourself.

That’s what you tell yourself.

What do friends do together anyway? Play video games? Hang out? You don’t own any electronic devices that can handle any of the latest games. Your flip phone has an outdated version of “Snake” but you don’t think you can entertain Saihara with that forever.

There’s the library. Would Saihara like the library? What would you even do there? Read? Great hobby for a loner, but you can’t exactly split that experience between two people.

Maybe you could play a game, like a board game? You have at least one of those catching dust in your apartment, right? You don’t actually own a chess set or else that would’ve been your first thought. You wonder if Saihara has ever played. You wonder if he’s any good at it.

Whatever the case, you put it off. You don’t initiate. You overthink, as usual, and nothing of substance happens.

You worry that Saihara was lying up his ass. He doesn’t consider you a friend. He was using you to alleviate his guilty conscience. How pious of him.

But then you remember what he said about “people” and “friends”. You remember his shy glances, his timid stance—he’s socially awkward. He’s probably overthinking this too! Ain’t that great, you’re both peas of a pod!

Fuckin’ fantastic.

It’s only when the weekend finally rolls around that you get a different message. It’s a pleasant little text from the capped boy:

Saihara

hello ouma-kun!

there’s a hobby shop near your high school

they’ve released new prizes for their gachapon machines

i know it’d be a sunday but

would you like to check it out tomorrow?

So, of course, you answer:

Sure.

And thus began a beautiful friendship between the two of you.

Saihara invites you out to go places, and you enjoy being his tagalong.

A lot of these “hangouts” are spent frequenting shops and watching Saihara getting giddy over useless pieces of junk, but he always offers you to pick out something for yourself. You were right on the money with that one.

Your deductions about Saihara proved to be flawed; while he does like to revisit shops to buy his trinkets, he doesn’t always stick to a set schedule. Figures, anyway.

He does check and fuss over you all the time, though, asking about your injuries and attempting to treat them like he’s some kind of personal medic. His first aid kit has grown in size and you’re tempted to go back for another ass kicking because it’s almost worth it if he’s there to pick up your pieces.

You’re not quite sure how this whole thing came together, even though you spurred it into motion. You like the attention Saihara gives you but you aren’t sure what he gets out of the deal. He doesn’t treat you like a caddy on his little shopping sprees and he does seem genuine when he’s concerned about you. You just can’t tell what it is—what does he like about you?

Why would someone like him be lonely? You would ask, but you always think better of it. Best to leave it be for now.

Because, in the end, you’d won!

Won, what, exactly? A sponsor? A friend? A real, wholesome companion? It doesn’t really matter what you call it. You won! You got what you wanted! You’re happy, for realz!

Everything worked out for once, everything came together in a neat, little bow.

That is until one day, Saihara invites you out somewhere and you both stop for lunch at a fine niche diner. You’d always kind of let him talk about his interest, leaning into introversion as your excuse during these excursions, but here he seems nervous, more-so than usual.

He looks at you, chartreuse eyes scanning you up and down, and you feel like you’re being tested for something.

That’s when he drops the question.

“Do you like Danganronpa?” Saihara asks, and this is where the dream ends. The windows shatter. The foundation buckles. This is where it all comes tumbling down.

You knew he would ask eventually. It’s a tricky question—an evil question—one that will most likely decide how much regret Saihara is going to have for investing in you.

Because, truth be told: you don’t.

You don’t like Danganronpa. You’ve never liked Danganronpa!

Because Danganronpa is one of the longest running killing game reality TV shows on air right now and it is the worst fucking pile of dogshit that you’ve ever seen.

Peddling out new seasons each year with gaudy casts of annoying characters with annoying motives and backstories, filled with ass-pully plot points and repetitive arcs, Danganronpa is a cheesy, cringy, gory B-movie-esque television series that wishes it were good cinema. From the way the themes are all over the place, the characters are rarely handled with genuine tact, and the fucking fandom ogles at the sight of gruesomely violent homicides just because they’ve been tinted pink—everything about it is deplorable.

Fans of the series are either sadistic fucks or braindead losers who couldn’t tell a good mystery from a one-piece puzzle.

You’ve watched and watched and watched that damn show, had every spoiler and character and fun fact shoved down your throat, and it’s never gotten any better. Not with new characters, not with new seasons, not even with the occasionally interesting plot thread that will inevitably be squandered. You’ve tried to like it, god knows you’ve tried! But nothing about it is redeemable in your eyes which is a frickin’ shame because it’s basically everywhere with how well beloved and popular it is. You’ve done your very damndest to tune it out into background noise, but it’s all anyone talks about these days.

Somehow, you have gone three weeks evading the topic with Saihara, which could count as a miracle in itself. All of the branded keychains, all of the official merchandise that Saihara owns is from that god awful game show. You knew this would come up at some point, it was only a matter of time. It was clear from the get go that Saihara was one of the more hardcore fans, but you’d decided to play the long game and see how long you could last.

Well, here’s the other shoe! Catch, Kokichi!

This is where your paths diverge, this is where he loses all interest in you because you don’t share the same enthusiasm for his favorite, special, little thing.

You knew it was coming, and yet—you don’t want your house of cards to fall just because of this.

You don’t want to lose Saihara.

He gazes at you in earnest, awaiting the make or break answer that will destroy the only meaningful relationship that you’ve ever been able to cultivate in your life.

Just say you love Danganorpa! Lie, claim a Lucky Student caught your eye. Say any season is your favorite one just to debate Saihara with the intent to lose. Laugh it off, say he’s right, say that he’s right about everything. Ass kiss, keep this going, don’t ever admit your disdain for that show!

A million lies sit on your tongue but you can’t even will yourself to utter a single fabrication. You just…can’t. Can’t admit that that show is good. Can’t admit that you like any bit of it, because you don’t.

You just. Fucking. Don’t.

You’re a liar, Kokichi. Lying is what you do. Just lie about it!

But, you can’t. You can't, you can't, you can't—!

You want to crawl in a hole and die somewhere. It’d be less humiliating. You really can’t summon up a teeny, tiny fib just to keep this whole charade going? Who knew you even had that much of an ego left to rear its ugly head? And now, of all times?!

So, as your brain short circuits under the weight of a simple yes or no question, and Saihara’s eyes bore into your head with innocuous curiosity, your tongue acts before you have time to think and you answer Saihara’s question with an inane one of your own:

“What’s Danganronpa?”